Kar-ma... Po-lice...

Well, Walt got his revenge. I guess I should have known better than to post anything negative before we were safely off property, because this morning the old guy thawed himself out and got medieval on our asses. Specifically our 6-year-old, Madison, who abruptly sat up in bed around 7:30 a.m. and announced to the room that her tummy REALLY hurt, before running to the bathroom and expunging its contents into the receptacle waiting there.


We believe Walt's agent of doom was Chef Mickey, either the gelatinous perfectly al-dente mouse-eared ravioli covered in ketchup tasty marinara sauce or the self-serve ice cream sundae bar featuring a half dozen candy toppings. Madison thinks it was the sundae, and who are we to argue. She briefly fell asleep earlier lying prone in the doorway to the bathroom, but seems better now. We're still in our room, I'm feeding her Sprite and we're watching the DVD to Cinderella. You hear that, Walt? We're recovering on brand. That should count for something.

Gwen took Ava back to the Magic Kingdom, they are determined to find Chicken Little. Madison is now back up on her feet, and she's not dashing for the toilet. I take that as a good sign. I just asked her whether or not she wanted to wander into Epcot, which is near our hotel. She nodded and then said, "Dad, can we start off in the gift shop downstairs, 'cause if I'm feeling OK in there I'll be OK in Epcot." No dummy, our Madison.

Mr. Disney, we're sorry. I shouldn't have been so critical last night, but don't worry, very few people read this blog, as evidenced by the fact that it is currently tenth out of 10 finalists in that little blog competition I shamelessly mentioned the other day. If you will let my daughter manage solid food again we will be eternally grateful. We might even come back someday.