I have to admit, my housekeeping skills leave much to be desired these days. Yet, that wasn’t always the case. Before I met my partner and welcomed my son, my apartment was a picture of cleanliness—every surface was devoid of clutter: no photographs, no knick-knacks, and certainly no plants. My bed was always made, my books meticulously organized, and my bills neatly tucked away.
I had strict guidelines for my refrigerator: containers arranged by size, meats and cheeses tucked away in the deli drawer, fruits and veggies in the crisper, and liquids only on the top shelf. Solid items? Not a chance.
Back then, I lived solo with two cats, working long hours as an entertainment lawyer, often dining out and even hiring someone to keep my space spotless. I thrived on order, considering myself the queen of organization—a master at quelling chaos.
But I was naive. I grew up in a household where chaos was commonplace. While our home was clean, it was filled with tension from two unhappy parents. Their arguments erupted over trivial matters, leading to packed bags and slammed doors, only for them to return hours later, promising to never fight again.
As an adult, I thought I could escape this tumult by maintaining an immaculate apartment and avoiding emotional entanglement—except for the wrong types of men, whose combative natures mimicked my own. I was convinced I could do better than my parents, believing that love could be devoid of chaos. In my mind, I would tackle any emotional upheaval that crossed my path.
Then came the right partner—Mark, whose calm demeanor and ability to embrace silence brought me a sense of peace. He showed me that we could disagree without chaos and encouraged me to pursue writing, leaving my law career behind. Though he isn’t the most expressive person, he demonstrates his love through actions that I’ve learned to appreciate.
Our first disagreement occurred years into our relationship when I was pregnant. We were removing an air-conditioning unit from a window when it slipped from our grasp and shattered below. “Oh no!” I exclaimed, rushing to clean up the mess. When I returned, Mark was visibly upset, sitting on the steps with red eyes. “We’re fighting. Why are we fighting?” he asked. Fighting? For us, that was about as heated as it got.
Fast forward to parenthood, a lively German shepherd who sheds more fur than my cats combined, and a career in writing that comes with its own set of challenges. Now, my days are filled with a never-ending to-do list, leaving little room for romance or even a tidy home.
On New Year’s Day 2015, amidst personal family drama that could rival any soap opera, I found myself overwhelmed. The house was a mess, with dog hair in every nook and crannies, books lying around, and a refrigerator that had become a biohazard. I dragged myself out of bed, only to find Mark disassembling the fridge and scrubbing it down.
“What are you doing?” I asked, bracing myself for a sarcastic reply. Instead, he simply said, “Something smells,” and continued cleaning. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but in my upbringing, ignoring my partner’s efforts was a recipe for conflict.
“Let me help,” I said, albeit begrudgingly, and started taking items out of the fridge. Mark emptied the vegetable drawer, filled with rotting produce, into the trash. “You don’t have to,” he assured me. His determination to tackle the mess made it easy for me to join in, and I found myself working alongside him, embracing the chaos as a sign of love.
This chaos? This is love.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Lydia Spencer explores her journey from being a meticulous housekeeper to embracing the chaos of family life. Through her relationship with Mark, she learns that love can flourish amidst disorder, transforming her perspective on control and emotional involvement. The narrative highlights personal growth, the challenges of parenthood, and the importance of collaboration in a loving partnership.