Sarah Parshall Perry - Sand in My Sandwich: And Other Motherhood Messes Im Learning to Love

He lifted me out of the slimy pit,

out of the mud and mire;

he set my feet on a rock

and gave me a firm place to stand.

Psalm 40:2

I am not famous. I am just a mother, and a writer, and ordinary in about every way imaginable. I write most days in my pajamas facing a fine view out the second-story window of a sprawling, elegant property I do not own. That is actually part of this story: the story of a life, and a messy one at that.

Then? My life was neat and ordered and under control. Now? My lifes a mess. Ask my friends.

Actually, dont. They wont see it through the veil of forced perfection. I am the one who still sometimes suppresses the urge to fly hysterically through the house with the Windex when I hear from my husbandthe guy who doesnt believe in charades of any sortthat were about to have houseguests. He will greet you at the door in his pajamas, sporting slippers with holes worn through to the floor, and hair of the most profound bed-head variety. I, however, have learned to course-correct with little more than an hours notice, and by the time we open our door (if I am lucky), the floors might be swept and there is food on the counter. This food might be nothing more than a half bag of tortilla chips Ive unearthed in our pantry, or a cup of questionably fresh mixed nuts. Please dont look in the closet. Youre likely to be hit by the avalanche of unhung coats. And for the love of Pete, dont smell the carpets. The dogs are in some kind of territorial pee-off.

Mine could be described as a typical mothers life: the life of a typical mother with a typical control problem, and a pretty swell grasp on how to out-Jones the Joneses. Think Stepford Wife with fewer mechanical gears; a wife and a mother who could never stand the mess.

Let me set the stage.

Imagine an ever-so-slightly uptight lawyer with vacuum lines in her carpet, an immaculate Toyota, and an apartment that smells of orchids. Her spice cabinet is arranged alphabetically. Her taxes are finished in January. Then, imagine a small-town hero with a giant Ford pickup, sheets he cant remember washing, and no college degree. Now, imagine a brief courtship, a hastily set wedding date, and the lawyer thinking to herself, I can change him.

Dont ever, EVER think this about another person.

Once, when things were orderly, when I was a single girl with a singular fixation on controlling everything, I took a trip to Jerusalem and placed into a gap in the citys ancient Western Wall a folded note telling the Lord that Id had enough of the incessant striving, the deep soul unrest that was keeping me awake at night. I told him I needed patience to wait for that right man, someone who, in my partnership with him, would nudge me closer to God. His response was something like, You sure about this? Six months later, the man with the blue pickup and a wild, impassioned faith showed up. He also had food on his shirt. To this day, the man ends up with as much on his clothes as he does in his mouth.

Matt and I bonded quickly and married within a year of meeting. This is where things stop sounding like a Nicholas Sparks novel. It was, in fact, the beginning of the end. It was the first step toward termination of a way of life to which Id held fast for two decades.