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Just after sunrise, when the sunlight forms a pale white trapezoid on their rug, their eyes open. We swaddle our babies in cotton and strap them into their high chairs, feeding them applesauce. They clap their hands, slowly at first, sloppily, and then faster and faster, their lips spotted with clumps of pulverized fruit. Good girls, we say . Good, good girls. An hour later, their excrement comes out in soft pellets coated with anti-bacterial agent and sealed in a microlayer of Plexiplastic. We toss the pellets out and clean their skin with anti-scratch wipes. Thayn oo, they say. Muh-muh. Duh-duh. What? we say, scrabbling to find our phones and focus the cameras on their petal-like mouths. What did you say to Mommy and Daddy? Muh-ma en duh-da. Say it again. Mama en Dada. Again. Mama and Dada. We make them repeat our names into the afternoon, the syllables ripening on their tongues, like a lullaby lost to our childhood. The night before our babies’ first birthday, we wake to use the b

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