I think when a woman is a young girl she has certain ideals of what marriage will entail. She pictures a white picket fence, complete with two kids contained inside; naturally a boy and a girl, playing together with an energetic puppy as dad comes home from work directly at five o’clock.
He breezes in with a perfect mood, and flowers for his bride who is just putting the final touches on a brilliant dinner. The house is in order, not a speck of dust in sight, and the table set with sparkling dishes gleams as brightly as the twinkle in the happy couple’s eyes. And then they kiss.
Well, in the real world dad comes home late to a disheveled home, even though his bride has been cleaning all day. Kids are cranky, mom is ill, and a quick peck on the the lips is offered before uttering, “now tell your father what you did today!”
Marriage isn’t at all like the fairy tales say. Everyone is not in a good mood all the time, and the stresses of managing a household are often overwhelming. You don’t get flowers every day, or your favorite meal cooked every night.
Reality is a bummer. Kids get sick, appliances break down, and bills stack up higher and higher. Parents get tired. Tired of work, tired of parenting, and just tired period.
Marriage isn’t a pristine love story. Marriage is messy.
I recently found myself with a home full of sick kids, a looming house move a week away, and too many things to do. I was tired, overwhelmed, not to mention sick myself. Something else had gone terribly wrong, the kids were misbehaving, and I felt on the edge of a breakdown. I called my husband, the only other adult who could feel my pain, and I spewed out my discord.
He listened as I brought to light more mess, more icky, messy problems that were threatening to rock our little world. And then he talked. His words did what they always tend to do. They soothed my frazzled mood, they lent clarity to the situation at hand, and just like that he emerged as a solid rock I could stand on when it felt like my world was slipping away.
He was the man who shared the mess with me. Every single messy part. He was the same guy who watched the children while I was sick so I could try and get some sleep. Our life was far from perfect, but somehow when we worked it together it seemed pretty darn close.
Marriage was messy, but it was a beautiful mess we managed to make work. It was our mess, and I really couldn’t imagine it any other way.
It turns out marriage is absolutely nothing like I pictured it would be. It turns out it’s better. It’s chaotic, exhausting, and a lot of work. It’s a give and take, a practice in patience, and a labor of love.
I’m not always in a good mood, and neither is he. Sometimes silence is the best resort, and other times communication is the key. I get mad, he does too. And then we get over it. We move on. Sometimes he is dead wrong, but then again, so am I. Even a great day can end bad, but it never ends with the sun setting on our wrath.
Despite the ups, downs, and problems life throws, in the end we are each other’s anchor, the calm in the storm, the peace amidst the chaos, the certainty even in the uncertain.
I’ve discovered marriage isn’t perfect by any means. In fact, it’s a mess. A beautiful, wonderful mess.