Jet lag

Our daughter slept all the way to Singapore, which was peaceful for everyone around us, but it meant that she was in no mind to sleep when we got home. We got her down at 10 p.m. but by 11 she was awake again, and at 3a.m. she was at full operational yelling status. My wife took her to the all night supermarket in Tanjong Pagar, running a gauntlet of disapproving stares. Honestly though, I’m not sure how much sanctimoniousness you’re allowed to muster while you are yourself traipsing around a supermarket at stupid o’clock.

Up until now, La Serpiente Aquatica Negra has been pretty much immune to jet lag. Sure, she’d intensify the impact on us by waking us up at some god-awful hour, but that was part of her usual (non) routine, not a special effort. This last trip though, leaping twelve time zones, just as she was achieving a stable schedule, has hit her hard. She stayed awake but angry until four p.m., then went to sleep until 6:30, when I got home. Horrified that she wasn’t getting back onto the right sleep times, I made her and my wife go out to the nearest Mexican restaurant, and we resisted her yelling for a good half hour before relenting and letting our tired baby go home again.

She went down to sleep at nine, but smelt weakness on us and was up again at 9:15. Eventually I sent her mother from the room and rocked her to sleep in my arms. I had five minutes of eardrum shredding chainsaw-like din, until she gave up, understanding I had no milk to give her. Then I sneaked out of the room, praying she remained asleep.

Next thing you know, she’ll be complaining about seat pitch on planes or the loss of her frequent flyer status, the little seasoned air traveler that she is.


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