Is Dati the new superwoman?

Just as I was sharpening my pen to write about the current trend of EU governments chasing mothers out of the home into full-time employment, out popped baby Zohra. Or to be more accurate, her 43-year old mother, Rachida Dati, who as French Justice Minister has been hogging the limelight because last week she returned to work five days after giving birth.

Five days. And she gave birth by Caesarean section which, let's all take note, is a major operation. I have to say, my jaw did drop a bit in amazement when I saw her on the news arriving for a Cabinet meeting at the Élysée Palace looking, well, magnificent: dressed in a tight-fitting black suit and high heels, looking very radiant. You would have thought she had jumped off the catwalk.

In my head I can't get round to the logistics of how she did it:

a) how could she be so absolutely bump-free slim, a mere five days later?

b) had her scar healed properly enough for her not to wince in pain every time she took a step in those high heels?

c) how could she look so rested and so fresh, as if she had just come from a yoga retreat (were her stitches not itching at all)?

d) and most importantly, how come her boobs were not leaking?

Well, so far so glamorous. Madame la Justice gives the impression that the birth of her baby girl was just another thing on her list of things to do, which she ticked off appropriately and then headed back to her high-flying job. She is a working woman who wants to pass off as a man, which is fine, albeit quite passé in 2009, the age of feminine feminism.

But she has to be warned. It will never be business as usual again. Although she has waved her 16 weeks of maternity leave, soon enough she'll catch up with the reality of her new life. This is what will happen to Rachida Dati in the next couple of years:

• She will start treasuring the real luxuries of her work - not the Christian Lacroix designer clothes, but the fact that she'll be able to read the paper, make a phone call, surf the internet and go to the toilet without interruption.

• As her colleagues will be humming the tune of the latest French number one hit (very possibly her arch enemy Carla Bruni's), she will be secretly humming 'I'm a little tea pot short and stout'.

• She'll be walking across the Élysée Palace, with an important foreign delegation and suddenly slip into the automatic: "Oh look! Pigeon! Let's chase it."

• If one her colleagues accidentally trips on the steps of her ministry, she'll be uttering in a louder-than-necessary voice (the one reserved to avert a never-ending wail) "Oopsie daisy! Not to worry now."

• Her daughter will be picking up the phone and telling whoever is ringing that mama is peeing or pooing and go in detail about nature's fascinating procedures.

• She will forget what a Saturday morning lie-in means, and will be woken up at 6 a.m. sharp to tiny voice giving a briefing of the events of the day before, concluding with a demand for the agenda of the day - and this before she has even recalled that she's part of a cabinet.

• Her powers of multi-tasking will increase multifold - during a crucial brainstorming meeting at work, she'll not only be contributing very valid ideas, but she'll also be planning tomorrow's educationally enriching play for her daughter while trying to brush off a blob of peanut butter on her designer dress.

• She will be leaving home like a whirlwind, applying mascara at the traffic lights, the touch of lip gloss by the roundabout, and doing up her hair as she's running up the stairs to the board room.

• Office politics will become a mere boring formality - anything is manageable compared with a terrible twos tantrum.

• She will be the one colleagues will come up to for a tissue, a wipe, and, what the heck, a croissant.

Here's to actually experiencing the joys and laughter of the above moments, Maman Dati, and not leaving it all in nanny's hands.