I park, yank on the brake and cast back my usual, "Come on, Eli," as I jump out of the car. I am running late as usual. But 'running late' doesn't really mean anything to a three year old and he is taking his sweet time with his seat belt buckle. I pull open his door, and start to tell him to hurry. But the words catch in my throat. It wasn't even five minutes ago that he was chattering to me about his Legos. But he's fast asleep now, his head tilted gently to one side, mouth slightly open. When I undo his seat belt buckle, he sighs but doesn't stir. I pick him up gingerly and guide his head to my shoulder. His body and arms cling to me tightly and I wonder if he might wake up. But he just presses himself closer to me and we head into the gym. I lay him across the old blue chair in the nursery. There is music blaring loudly beyond the door and there will be other children in the room soon, screaming, yelling and jostling. But I know he will sleep through it all. He always does. I smile and shake my head at him sprawled in his armchair. Not for the first time, I wonder why the child won't just take a proper nap once in a while.

Unaverage Qualities

When a person of average wit and average experience finds himself in the rather unappetizing position of disappointment... he consequently must discover that he has within himself decidedly unaverage - whether above or below - qualities.

4/17/2010

She sits in a room that is dimly lit. There is a clock ticking each laborious second into a tired silence. There is a pencil in her hand and a piece of paper before her, but it is blank, a monstrous, uninterrupted whiteness. It draws the eye in this murky dimness. She gazes into this whiteness, and is aware that it will eventually blind her, or perhaps swallow her up like a swollen leviathan. The vastness is threatening, pregnant but her hand does not, cannot move to mark it, define it, shape it. Doing so would be to mark her own weakness. Once penned, it will forever be her very own.