I arrived in Paris as an au pair in 2022. I was in my early twenties and armed only with GCSE French and a suitcase that could barely fit in my chambre de bonne – nine square metres of ‘characterful’ living space under the eaves, with a window just large enough to glimpse the Eiffel Tower if I leaned out at a dangerous angle.
How did I end up here? After graduating, I wanted to immerse myself in a new city and polish my French. A few years on and I am still nannying, though I have returned to London. It seems I’ve become a career nanny by accident. But I’ve come to understand more about the different styles of parenting in the UK and France than I ever thought possible – and feel sure that British parents could learn a lot from our friends across the Channel.
I loved the rhythm of life as an au pair in France, especially the goûter – the sacred after-school snack. Like the worst English stereotype, I initially offered crisps; the children looked at me as if I’d handed them a soggy chou-fleur. We went instead to the boulangerie, where they chose baguettes as long as their arms to stuff with butter and dark chocolate at home.
The more time I spent in Paris, the more I realised that every word of Pamela Druckerman’s book French Children Don’t Throw Food was true. Waiting patiently for a treat, Druckerman wrote, ‘is a first, crucial lesson in self-reliance and how to enjoy one’s own company’.
Certainly one of the biggest culture shocks came at the table. In France, there’s no such thing as ‘kids’ food’ – everyone eats the same thing at the same time, around 5 p.m. No dinosaur–shaped nuggets. Meals are eaten en famille and follow a ritual: crudités to begin, then the main course, pudding and finally cheese. The children sat properly at the table, chatting as though they were at a diplomatic dinner.
The discipline that produces these mini-gourmands can seem quite brisk. Tantrums are met not with soothing explanations, but a firm ‘Ça suffit!’ (‘That’s enough!’). By the end of my year, I was fluent in French reprimands: arrêt! (stop!) and dépêche-toi! (hurry up!).
The children in France often surprised me with their astonishing independence. I would watch as a four-year-old folded napkins perfectly for dinner while a two-year-old proudly carried a basket of laundry. Parents have little patience for dawdling, channelling that energy instead into discipline: one mother timed a three-year-old’s toothbrushing with a stopwatch.
Back in London, the contrast was immediate. My new family lived in a house overflowing with baby gear and toys. British parents could never be accused of under-investing in their offspring; their living rooms often resemble the Early Learning Centre after a small explosion.
London’s under-fives have busier social calendars than most adults. There’s Mini Mozart, toddler yoga and Tiny Sculptors. The children have memberships before they have molars.
The funny part? Parents are rarely in sight, just a row of us nannies, clutching sippy cups and dutifully snapping photos of children clapping along to concertos for the parents to watch later. Yet despite the endless stimulation, boredom sets in quickly. My London charges could have 200 toys scattered across the floor and still sigh: ‘There’s nothing to do.’ In Paris, the children once spent two hours making origami frogs and were thrilled when one actually hopped.
The children once spent two hours making origami frogs and were thrilled when one actually hopped
At mealtimes, the differences grew starker still. In London, children eat at 5 p.m., parents at 8 p.m. On the plus side, this gives couples a chance to enjoy a quiet meal together, perhaps even a glass of wine without negotiating broccoli. Yet in France, that same glass would be shared over a convivial dinner with the children, swapping stories and stopping toddlers from feeding quiche to their doudou.
A French parent expects their nanny to be an extension of the parental regime, someone who will shout ‘Va dans ta chambre!’ for a minor infraction or declare there will be no food until they’ve helped lay the table. A British one expects the nanny to be part-playmate, part-therapist: den-building one minute, unpacking ‘big feelings’ the next.
When I have children, I’ll aim for the best of both worlds: British tenderness, French structure, and evening meals that feel like a gentle conclusion to a day rather than a battleground. If they try blue cheese without protest and let me finish a cup of coffee while it’s still hot, I’ll call that a success.
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