It's not what it sounds like. It doesn't mean a a terrible child per se. It refers most often to a young and unorthodox success. And one who makes rather shocking statements.
We were eating at a luminous spot not far from Cluny la Sorbonne. Yummy food and charming staff. We cooed at the baby who looked at us with amused eyes. She loves her cheese. I think it's in the French DNA. That and love of good bread. So, obviously, as partly French she was off to a good start in life.
So there we were, nous trois et bébé, catching up on life.
The topic eventually veers to post-birth bodies.
The new mama tells us that in fact, the girls having heroically served their purpose, will lose their enthusiasm and droop down.
Fat is to be found where fat shouldn't be.
Basically, Nothing. Is. Ever. The. Same.
They don't tell you, she says, that there is a little pee with each sneeze.
Well that sounds normal, we agreed. Same thing can happen with a nice jump high on a trampoline.
Ali said that she knew a friend who, afterwards, sat on an icepack for a month. I got cold just thinking about it.
Then new mama tells us, with a straight face, When sitting post-baby, one sometimes has to rearrange themselves since things are just not how they used to be. Things are (and I quote)...flappy.
I nearly chocked on my quiche.
Stunned silence followed by roars of laughter.
This is the real deal. The stuff nobody talks about. I loved her for it, but I was also OMG, did she just say that?!
Then I looked over at her little one and smiled. She has no clue, I thought, this perfect cheese-loving angel with windswept locks and crystal blue eyes, of all the myriad of changes she has brought about.
And how one day on a sunny fall afternoon in Paris, she was the reason that three friends laughed without abandon and shifted, just a little tiny bit, on their seats.