The windows in my kitchen had already turned to mirrors, the inky sky outside a foil to the pre-dinner chaos inside.
The counter was littered with dishes, both clean and dirty. I was trying to regain a foothold and straighten up before we launched into another meal and dirtied even more dishes. Standing at the sink, washing Kieran's highchair tray for the 483rd time that day, I saw said toddler walk calmly into view. My eyes followed him as he walked past me, to the cupboard next to the oven. He opened a door, the one to the pots and pans, and threw in a sock. Then he shut the door and walked away, as if the whole thing never happened.
No wonder I can't find anything in this house.
Joining Heather today for Just Write.
