Where Are You From?

Lucille Ball, Keith Thibodeaux, and Desi Arnaz as the Ricardos. [Online image] 1956.

Whether at home in Paris or back home in California, I get asked the same question. Where are you from? It's like I have "foreigner" stamped on my forehead no matter where I go. (Well, stamped on my tongue is more like it.) After 10+ years living in France, my English does have a bit of a lilt to it, and I end up "searching my words" (and, yes, translating French expressions directly into English). And as for my French: well, I never could pronounce "r," "ou," or "u." My French in-laws love trying to make me say words like "citrouille" just so they can hear the tortured syllables escape my American mouth, as my brain searches in vain for safe alternatives: "potiron"? There's only one thing I can do: swallow my pride and admit that the person asking me the question has the home advantage. . . though I do have the advantage of having two homes.

Bringing Up Bébé

 

Katherine Hepburn as Susan. [Online image] 1938.

I didn't like Bringing Up Bébé from the minute I heard about it. And I never would have started reading it if my French mother-in-law hadn't sent me a copy last year while I was on vacation. I mean, an American mom in Paris writing glowing anecdotes about "French mothering" (that has be an oxymoron, by the way)!? She can't be talking about the same French moms I see on a daily basis. Ok, I'll admit (grudgingly) that Parisian moms may have the guilt-free "work-life balance" down better than we English-speaking expats. But if embracing the mantra, "the perfect mother doesn't exist," means that you have no qualms about pushing your Maclaren down the street with one hand while dangling a lit cigarette from the other, I'd really rather continue living with my Anglo-Saxon guilt. 
As for the whole relaxed-and-seductive French mother spiel: of course they're cool and collected and sneaker-free! They're holding down a desk job all day--not chasing after a toddler! I still remember running into my husband's French colleague (and mother of two) last spring. She was out on her lunch break, and I was hurrying to the bus with my son after a Gymboree class. "You look tired!" she told me in surprise. A few months later, our two families spent a summer afternoon together because we were vacationing nearby. "I'm exhausted!" she said, admitting that being an around-the-clock mom was hard work. I managed what I hoped was a cool and collected smile of empathy, while my sandaled, vacation-happy feet took me for a triumphant victory lap--without the least bit of guilt.