watching her fall asleep to the hellish pitter-patter of a bloody nose drip. it's certainly not the kind of i.v. fluid fed dream material we're told about as kids.
but neither is
coffee brewed in sippy cups steaming bards at too young an age. when did your walks in the park become careful stepping, ballet recitals with ripped tights.
i guess we're all just stuck in some form of love, huh.