At best, I’m a messy housekeeper. It wasn’t always this way. Before I married my partner and became a mother, my home was immaculate—every surface gleamed with order. There were no family photos or trinkets cluttering the space; my bed was always made, books were neatly shelved, and all my paperwork was expertly tucked away.
I had strict rules for my refrigerator, too. Containers were organized by size, meats and cheeses resided in the deli drawer, while fruits and veggies had their designated spots in the crisper. The top shelf? Only liquids were allowed; it was the tallest shelf, and I’d made it a point never to place solids up there—never.
Back in those days, I lived alone with two cats while working as an entertainment lawyer. My hours were long, takeout was my mainstay, and I could afford to hire someone to clean my apartment. I had everything under control. I was the epitome of efficiency, the queen of order amidst chaos.
Oh, how naive I was. My childhood home was a different story, characterized by a different form of chaos. While it was certainly tidy, it was also filled with the discord of two unhappy parents. Their constant bickering, often over trivial matters, created an environment where emotional turmoil was the norm. As a child, I vowed to escape that turmoil by crafting an immaculate living space and avoiding emotional involvement—except, of course, with the wrong kind of men whose argumentative tendencies mirrored my own.
Then came Alex, the right man for me, whose calm demeanor and ability to embrace silence offered me solace. He showed me that disagreements didn’t have to escalate into chaos. With him, I found the courage to leave my legal career behind and pursue my passion for writing. He’s not overly affectionate and rarely expresses his feelings outwardly, but his actions speak volumes.
Fast forward a few years into our relationship, I was pregnant with our son, and we had our first fight—although I didn’t even realize we were fighting at the time. While attempting to remove an air-conditioning unit from a window, it slipped from our grasp and crashed to the ground. In a moment of frustration, I yelled, “Dammit!” and rushed to clean up the mess. When I returned, Alex was gone, visibly upset on our back steps. I was taken aback. “Why are we fighting?” I asked, puzzled. To us, that was as intense as it got.
Then came parenthood, along with the chaos of a large German shepherd who sheds more than my two cats combined. With my new writing career and teaching responsibilities, I found myself scrambling to balance everything while trying to keep up with our son’s school schedule. Time was a luxury I could no longer afford, and my once-ordered refrigerator became a mere afterthought.
Despite our busy lives, Alex and I rarely argued. Still, we were often pulled in opposite directions, struggling to find time for each other. I began to wonder if we’d ever reconnect amidst the chaos of life. On New Year’s Day in 2015, I found myself overwhelmed, dealing with family drama that felt straight out of a soap opera. I spent most of the morning under the covers, dreading the mess around me—mail piled on tables, dog hair in every corner, and a refrigerator that had started to emit a foul odor.
Finally, I mustered the energy to get out of bed. In the kitchen, I was greeted by the sight of Alex, diligently disassembling the fridge and scrubbing away the grime. I paused, half-expecting a snide remark about the mess. Instead, he simply said, “Something smells,” and continued cleaning.
At that moment, I felt a wave of self-pity wash over me. I wanted to retreat back to bed and wallow. But in the household I grew up in, turning a blind eye wasn’t an option. “Let me help,” I said, my tone less than enthusiastic, as I began removing bottles from the shelves. As we worked together, I realized that helping wasn’t such a burden after all. It was as if a weight had lifted; I could feel the love shining through the chaos.
This chaos? This is love.
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In Summary:
This journey has taught me that love often exists amidst the chaos of life. Letting go of control doesn’t mean losing order; it means embracing the beautiful messiness that comes with building a life together.
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