waiting for a toddler to fall asleep is an act of endurance worthy of some grainy photo essay and hyperbolic prose of Rouleur. this one would be a mainstay column in Rouleur's sister publication, Tristeur. there's something rather pathetic and cute about the infinite snot stream, the self-sabotage regarding the process of falling asleep, and the trembling gasp-breathing that echoes like aftershocks from sobbing. i'm going to leave soon. i said that a few minutes ago, and a few minutes before that, and a few minutes before that. it's like hill reps: the courage exists in coming back for more, and achieving it again. the only problem is, what i'm achieving is little more than boiled over frustration and self-pity. there's no sweat. there's no blood. there are plenty of tears. maybe this is the training i need for the mental aspects of riding bikes fast. my pain threshold in my head gets further and further from pansy and approaches zen with each unending session of attempted 'nap time'.
it's a good thing she's cute.
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