How do you like them apples?



A jet lagged baby is a confusing proposition; at three months, they don’t adhere to much of a schedule, so it shouldn’t matter what time zone they’re in. Whether their parents are in their usual time zone or buffetted by flying around the world, the rule is that the baby will start squawking when you’re least equipped to decipher or follow its demands.

Fortunately, apart from a bit of wind our daughter remained peaceable until 3pm. She drooled copious amounts, enough to soak several of her outfits, but was otherwise content until 10pm Singapore time, when she began to lament the absence of line dancing and over-the-top karaoke in the square.

We retaliated by rocking her to sleep, a remarkably swift operation, and then dressing her in this utterly ridiculous, apple-themed baby-gro.

I like apples, but I’m not sure the natural dignity of my child is preserved by wearing a one-piece decorated with dozens of smiling apples. ("The natural dignity" of somebody who requires external assistance whenever she defecates is a difficult concept to come across, but I have faith in my readers.)

I like apples, but assigning them human characteristics (and facial features) is dangerously anthropomorphic. And I don’t think apples, like any other thing, would look forward to being eaten. Are those smiles disingenuous? Sarcastic? Misinformed? Are the apples on my infants clothing planning some strike against their human oppressors? We should be careful around fruit, very careful.

I was so careful this evening that I avoided apples entirely, drawn or real, and instead of acquiescing to any demand to visit an apple restaurant, I chose for us to eat at Pizza Express, where our child made nary a peep and I drank a large gin and tonic. I’m not sure if her sound sleep from 4:30 until 10pm is a good thing, or preparation for a night of noisy complainrs at the idiocies of her parents. But we shall find out soon enough.

Meanwhile, I fear the apples are massing.


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