Oh, how I hate reruns!
Big E spent the better part of 45 minutes at dinnertime gutting his quesadilla. He was pulling the cheese out and licking the tortilla. Appetizing, I know.
He left the table and began to play. I asked him if he was done with dinner.
YES OR NO?
He said yes.
So I pitched the quesadilla carcass.
Gripping a spoon and a fork, he ran to the trash and started fishing for his dinner.
I pulled his little arms out of the trash. He immediately reached back in. He was crying for his dinner. I pulled the whole trash bag out and went to tie it up. I noticed the spoon was now missing. Big E was clawing at the bag and screaming. Big tears were streaming down his face.
QUESADILLA! QUESADILLA! QUESADILLA!
Ugh, for the last time Big E, we don't eat food out of the trash! See What won't Big E eat?
I grabbed the bag and ran into the garage to search for my spoon in dimly lit peace. He's inside banging on the door. I can't find the dang spoon, but can I mention how much I love rummaging through our trash? I leave the bag next to my car and head back inside.
I find the spoon on his place mat. Whew!
I run back to the garage. Big E follows me. I tie up the bag and throw it in our trash can. Big E is standing next to the trash can and begging for his dinner.
Now this is just pathetic. I ask him to come in the house with me. He is not interested. I have to pick him up and drag him into the house. He grabs onto the side mirror of my car.
I'm hoping none of my neighbors happen to be walking by, because it probably sounds like I'm running a torture chamber out of my garage. Which for the record, I am not.
I got Big E back in the house and we sat at the dinner table, took deep breaths, and calmed down (both of us needed this).
I looked over at Little E sitting quietly in his highchair, he smiled at me. Then he picked his nose. Oh, Little E, don't ever grow up.