Having toddlers always means that there's a fair amount of chaos

In the small kingdoms we call homes, where sandals and toy chariots mingle on the same floor, a bright saying is carved upon the lintel: “Having toddlers always means that there’s a fair amount of chaos at home, but that’s part of the fun.” Hear how this speaks against the tyranny of perfect order. Life does not bloom in glass cases; it grows where juice stains the table and laughter outruns the broom. The wise learn to welcome the holy disorder of early childhood: the overturned basket becomes a fortress, the mismatched socks a herald’s flags, the sticky hand a seal of loyal love.

The ancients would have smiled at this teaching. For what is a toddler but a pilgrim newly arrived, testing the laws of gravity and mercy? Their chaos is not malice; it is discovery in motion. The cup falls—lesson. The door slams—echo. The dog yelps—cause and effect. In such experiments the world unveils itself, and a parent becomes both priest and cartographer, blessing the mess while mapping safe borders. Order has its day, but in these years it must be a trellis, not a cage.

Do not mistake the saying for idle indulgence. It hides a stern joy. To call the clamor “part of the fun” is to choose delight over resentment, presence over performance. It is to confess that a home is not a showroom but a harbor, and harbors are noisy—gulls, ropes, weather, comings and goings. The mother and father who welcome this noise do not lose dignity; they exchange it for a deeper nobility: the power to turn spilled milk into shared laughter, to make of every interruption a small invitation to wonder.

Consider a story from our own chronicles. When Theodore Roosevelt’s children roamed the White House, they brought menageries, pillow fights, and impromptu “state visits” to their father’s study. It was said the place shook with footsteps and schemes. Yet the president—busy as a foundry—often joined the melee, then returned to his papers with brighter eyes. The republic did not collapse; the family thrived. The lesson travels easily across centuries: where affection rules, chaos becomes rehearsal for courage, inventiveness, and resilient cheer.

There is a subtler wisdom here as well. The chaos of toddlers exposes our idol of control. We crave a silent corridor, an immaculate calendar, a floor that remembers the sweep. But children arrive like spring floods, and the river teaches the banks to be generous. In yielding a little, we gain much: patience that does not crack, humor that breaks tension’s back, and a gratitude that sees the living proof of time—in muddy prints and crayon treaties upon the wall.

Let the teaching be set down for the apprentices of parenthood: Make peace with the lively storm. Plan, yes—but plan for interruptions as if they were guests of honor. Remember that the best home is not the quietest but the kindest, the one whose order serves people rather than punishing them. Measure a day not by floors conquered but by hearts comforted, questions answered, and giggles harvested before dusk.

Rites for the road: (1) Establish “sanctuary clutter”—zones where chaos is licensed (a drawer of pans to bang, a box of fabrics to spill), so curiosity can feast without fear. (2) Keep a “miracle ledger”: each night, write one small marvel your toddler revealed—a new word, a brave climb, a shared crumb—so that memory favors wonder over exhaustion. (3) Create brief anchor rituals—morning song, noon story, evening candle—threads of rhythm woven through the raucous weave. (4) When frustration rises, choose a single act of fun: a chase down the hall, a ridiculous hat, a dance beside the sink. Thus shall the house become a workshop of joy, where chaos is not an enemy to be crushed but a teacher to be befriended—and where love learns to laugh as it builds.