French Toast by Harriet Welty Rochefort Read Free Book Online Page B

purchases. It was a rather large dresser with three drawers. He never did notice—and it was at that point that the woman figured out that she was free to do what she wanted
without
egalitarian consulting. Seize the power!
    There’s a point to be made here about the Franco-American marriage. The American woman who has married a Frenchman finds herself in a rather odd position. She, who likes to think of herself as independent, freewheeling, and in power, finds herself at a triple disadvantage. She is on
his
territory, speaking
his
language, contending with
his
friends and family. Even if her dear husband happened to be the most democratic person in the world, she starts out with a few counts against her and spends an inordinate amount of her time simply defending herself. A few women never make it, divorce,and leave. Others become philosophical or assimilate, or both. Whatever the solution, it’s a struggle.
    This extends to small matters. Frenchmen want you to pack their bags, pick out their shirts, et cetera. When I complained about that, a female French friend of mine told me I shouldn’t. If you pick out his clothes and pack his bag, she told me, you’ll have a fighting chance of him looking nice, the way you want him to. I meditated on this and decided that she definitely had a point. I now, more or less, pack my husband’s bag, and it’s true, he does look better.
    Another thing that fascinates me about Frenchwomen is their rather special mother-daughter relationship.
    â€¢ My neighbor, who has two daughters, stopped on the street to talk to me the other day. She told me that her daughter was going to a private school in our area (only twenty minutes by car but a good hour on public transportation), so my neighbor gets up every morning at 7:00 A.M . to accompany her to school. The daughter is twenty.
    â€¢ My sister-in-law and my mother-in-law phone each other every day and spend almost every weekend together in the country. I adore my mother, but, even if we weren’t five thousandmiles apart, I wonder what on earth we could find to say to each other every day.
    â€¢ A French friend tells me about a woman friend of hers who would never think of buying a pair of shoes without asking her mother’s approval. And the friend is fifty years old!
    One explanation of the closeness of mothers and daughters is that almost half of the feminine population in France works, and many Frenchwomen have to turn to their mothers for child care (in spite of the excellent system of child-care centers that exists).
    Another explanation is that, unlike in the States, many French young people do not travel far to university and either continue to live at home or stay in close physical proximity to their parents. This can also weigh on the daughter. A recent article in a French women’s magazine pointed out how truly horrible adolescent daughters can be with their mothers, either by freezing them out or by running away from home—anything to get away from mom. A third explanation, which crosses my mind when I am up against a cold, superior-looking type of Frenchwoman, is that perhaps only their mothers can stand them—shame on me!
    Mothers and daughters may have close links, but it doesn’t seem to be a very sexy thing to have babies and then spend your life as a professional mother. The goodside of this is that, in general, when you go to a French person’s house for dinner, you will be spared the child routine, the horrors, say, of wading through an entire meal with a two-year-old you have to praise every two minutes, because children are really supposed to be seen (and then only at the appropriate time) and not heard.
    French mothers seem to be bogged down by the duty side of motherhood (they would probably say that American mothers seem to hone in on the enjoyment part and disregard the discipline side). They bring the kids up, dress them well (my kids looked like ragamuffins