jordan pulse -

By Atef Abu Hajar

In a time when order has become a rare currency and calmness an unforgivable crime, the “chaotic family” emerges as a sacred masterpiece of disorder — a painting of love and madness together, where romance meets the sound of the washing machine, and big dreams clash with chipped teacups.

It is a kingdom of its own kind, ruled by chaos, where love is crowned despite the smell of onions and garlic, and happiness is measured by the number of toys scattered on the floor.

In this beautiful mess, I’ll tell you my friend’s story:

He said: When I used to talk to her, I would soar high in the sky, flying alone toward the horizon — migrating to her kingdom. I’d search for water, air, and all that’s delightful, acting like a bird craving life. I looked like a happy falcon roaming the skies, yet deep down I was the same “heron of sorrow.”

She used to tell me: When I get married, I want to be a “chaotic wife” and have seven kids — my own messy kingdom. Dishes piled in the sink, laundry spilling from the washing machine, cupboard doors left open, the olive jar lid missing, mismatched cups and mugs, and toys scattered everywhere. You’d walk around looking for your socks, step on a sharp toy, and shout “damn it!” while I pretend I didn’t hear you.

I want you to come home from work — especially on Thursdays — to find me with my hair all puffed up, wearing your socks, and the house smelling of onions and garlic. And I’ll tell you right away: the water’s cut off, the gas cylinder’s empty, and my mom’s sleeping over tonight. But don’t worry — I love you and only care that you’re happy. I’ll make sure you have all the comfort and joy you need.

Since that day, I’ve dreamed of having a “chaotic family” more than any palace or fantasy island. I’ve come to believe that happiness isn’t in neatly arranged cups or matching mugs, but in the sound of kids shouting while you take a sweet nap on the couch, in the smell of food burned by love, and in a “chaotic wife” who holds the broken pieces of life together with a smile and says:

“Honey, it’s fine, don’t worry — I’ve been messy since my parents’ house.”

And so, in an age that glorifies appearances and measures happiness by matching glassware and perfect Instagram shots, the “chaotic family” remains the truest story — the loveliest refuge. There, in the noise of love and the randomness of everyday life, small miracles are made.

Because being “chaotic” isn’t a flaw — it’s life itself, lived without masks.
When the house buzzes with love and the mess turns into music, that’s when we realise true order is simply to love — despite everything.

By the way, a “chaotic woman” isn’t just a messy housewife — she’s a special, sweet kind.