His knees are bent.

Like a frog.

His nostril whistles.

He sleeps peacefully.

He's 56.

"Charlie," I whisper into the dead of night, giving him a slight nudge.

The ceiling fan hums.

"Charlie, you're low. Have some juice."

"Charlie!"

So many nights I've whispered these words into his sleeping ears. So many nights for four-and-a-half years. So many nights Susanne has. So many nights other moms and dads around the world whisper the very same words to their children in the darkness. We need a cure.

He keeps his eyes closed.

He just nods and opens his mouth when he feels the straw poking at his lips. (READ MORE)

I was just sitting at my desk working on an extremely important project (FDL standings) when a co-worker stopped in his tracks as he walked by my desk, squinting into my eyes.

"Whoa! What happened to you?"

"Huh?"

"Did you get beat up?"

"What? No." I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"The purple under your eyes. Looks like you got beat up," he continued.

"Oh, that?" I said, touching the corner of my eye near the bridge of my nose. "No, that's just lack of sleep, I guess. That's what getting up every night at two or three in the morning will do to you." (READ MORE)