DIRTY FRYING PAN AND SPATULA on the stove.
SIX (six!) cracked eggshells, perched atop the already too-full countertop compost bin.
SLUG-TRAILS of egg-goo criscrossing the stovetop and adjacent counter.
ONE ketchup-covered plate, unrinsed, tossed into the sink.
The word "EGGS", scrawled onto the magnetic shopping list attached to the refrigerator door, in handwriting that surely belonged to Seth.
(This last is a good sign – it means I've got him trained to add items to the grocery list when we run out.)
The teenager did not have to tell me what he made himself for an after-school snack. The evidence in the kitchen spoke volumes on his behalf.
Photo borrowed from this site
My name is Meg. I live with one husband, three boys, and a fat dog who has yet to admit that he stole the half loaf of homemade bread off of the kitchen island and ate the entire thing on Saturday night.
Welcome to my world.