Q is for Quesadilla

E had quesadilla for the first time today, and then proceeded to eat two slices (are they called slices?). Which is rare because E doesn’t really eat much outside the home, and E isn’t what we call adventurous with food. That apple(face) doesn’t fall far from this tree.

Two hours later and she is throwing up like a G6, and D has to deal with it all by himself because regurgitated quesadilla + digestive juices + milk was setting off my already overactive gag reflex. 

Bedlam at bedtime — E insists on sleeping in our bed (again, rare), and two hours later, I am awoken by a sharp kick to the kidneys. The dogs are not pleased either, and have retreated to the far ends of the bed, staring at E with abject dislain. I Guess no one, two or four legged, enjoys being bashed in their sleep. D is twisted into a weird angle to accommodate her and I decide enough is enough and move E back to her own bed. She is obviously not pleased about this and whines to D, who patiently goes and settles her down. (He has since fallen asleep in her bed and seems comfortable enough there.)

6.23 am – I am wide awake playing with familar old anxieties in my head– so much fear for the future and what is to come, the uncertainty disquiets me. Phryne Fisher (book version, although the show is great too) isn’t distracting me from this gnawing sensation in the deep of my gut and I am only thankful for the May Day respite tomorrow.