Au revoir, Parisian parenthood

By James Coomarasamy BBC Paris correspondent

My time as a Parisian parent has ended as it began - with our children's paediatrician handing over the Roquefort file.

It was just over three-and-a-half years ago that he first gave us a piece of paper, suggesting we add that venerable blue cheese to our daughter Maya's diet.

Proud Parisian parent: James Coomarasamy with daughter Maya

How appropriate, then, that during our last visit to his practice, a few weeks ago we were given a similar "prescription" for our 11-month-old son, Finn.

As we scanned the paper with a knowing nod, my wife and I remembered how we'd pondered the medicinal effects of the king of French cheeses - and reached the conclusion that the blue mould must be good for a baby's stomach.

But when we checked with our paediatrician later, we were met with an incredulous stare: "Mais non, it's just to get her used to the taste."

'Lovely little lady'

It's not just her eating habits the doctor's been concerned about - but her demeanour as well. When Maya was a baby, she went to him for a monthly check.

When I came home on the days of those visits, I was - or so I'm told - as nervous as a parent waiting for an end-of-term report.

In no time at all, Maya went from being a charming baby to a boozing toddler

It wasn't so much what the doctor said about her health that concerned me, but the comments he made in the margin.

For - this being Paris - he gave her marks for elegance and charm. One time he decided she was a "belle poulette", on another occasion a "lovely little lady" - written in English.

Rather sadly, I was more concerned about how he'd rated her poise than whether he'd decided that she had some terrible disease.

And then - in no time at all - Maya went from being a charming baby to a boozing toddler.

When we asked our local boulangerie to bake a cake for her third birthday party, we were bemused, shall we say, when the impressive gateau came infused with unmistakeable aroma of Grand Marnier. One bite was enough to tell us that it was soaked in the stuff.

It turns out that this is common practice. In fact, the lady who runs Maya's nursery has a strict rule about birthdays - parents can only bring homemade cakes.

"I don't want a load of drunken kids on my hands," she says.

The birds and the bees

Yes - you could be forgiven for thinking that innocence doesn't last long in France.

Last summer we were with some friends and their young children in the market in Carjac in the Lot valley when we stumbled across an old beekeeper, dressed in baggy blue shorts and a faded brown trilby hat.

Maya can drawl "Ouais" with the best of them

How quaint, we thought, when he offered to tell the children how honey is made.

At first, as he began his often-told tale, I was distracted by his uncanny resemblance to Francois Mitterrand, but then - as I began to pay attention to his words - I realised that these three- and five-year-olds - thankfully, with varying levels of French - were being told about the Queen Bee's pleasure at having a multitude of male partners simultaneously thrusting themselves upon her.

Cutting short this tale of sexual bliss, we bought a couple of jars of his honey and made a bee line for our car.

Who knows? Perhaps that was his deft marketing tactic: shock them into a purchase.

But while there may be something poetic about learning about the birds and the bees from a beekeeper, I decided my three-year-old daughter could wait a while.

Playground French

I have to say at this point that Maya hasn't had as pure a Parisian childhood as she might have done. Certainly not one the Academie Francaise would appreciate.

Because we're bringing her up bilingually - my wife, Nanette, is Dutch - we decided to send her to an international nursery, where - and we have to whisper this to French friends - the lingua franca is English.

Still, despite this linguistic deprivation, she's acquired an impressive range of what I can only call playground French.

There may still be hope on the culinary front for Finn

She can drawl "Ou-aais" with the best of them - and is prone to tell naughty boys: "t'es pas gentil, toi..."

The one thing she hasn't acquired though, is the French love of good food. Yes, she'll happily wolf down a pain au chocolat, but anything more sophisticated - forget it.

I remember having lunch in the picturesque village of St Cirq La Popie, and asking for the children's menu. We were in the heart of Quercy - foie gras land - one of France's great culinary regions and the children's menu didn't consist of chips or sausages, just smaller portions of confit de canard or andouillette.

So, when we asked for ketchup, there seemed to be a collective intake of breath throughout the crowded restaurant, before the waiter's curt reply came: "Non monsieur, it's our home-made mustard - or nothing."

And here again, we're guilty. Yes - when the Roquefort file was passed to us all those years ago, we dismissed its recommendations.

As a result, Maya hasn't acquired the taste for that particular cheese - or indeed, for pretty much any other variety of cheese that isn't processed. We have failed her.

But there's still hope for our son, Finn. As we head back to England, our first purchase may well be a block of Roquefort - one of the national symbols of the country we're leaving behind.