Selfless, selfish love

I didn't grow up in a family that said 'I love you' often. It may have been said to me on the odd occasion, but I have no memory of it. The first time I heard someone say 'I love you' was my first serious boyfriend when I was 19, and what a debacle that was!

We may have looked deep into each other's eyes, cocooned in the warm glow of togetherness, and mumbled those three teeny words at times, but the love didn't extend much further than that. It was three years of jealous tantrums (yes, me!), hysteria (yes, me!), infidelity (yes, me!) and pot addiction (we both indulged there). Nor was the sex great.

The relationship was clearly doomed, yet I clung on like a cat stuck on the highest, most flimsy branch of a tree, paralysed. 

After a particularly nasty fight while holidaying in Byron Bay, I looked up to the heavens, desperate perhaps for a sign, guidance, something to save me from the hell I'd created for myself in the guise of 'love'. 

What greeted me was a blanket of stars so thick, so vast, so exquisite, I let myself fall into its immensity and wrap me up, like the warm embrace of a new lover. It was time to turn my back on the old. 

                                              ******************* 

My first relationship didn't teach me much about what love is, but it did teach me a lot about what love isn't.  

Love isn't jealous outbursts. 

Love isn't deceitful. 

Love isn't violent.

And love never attacks, demeans or abuses.

Fifteen years have passed since then, and I feel I have learned something of love in that time. Well, one thing, and that's a start.

I've learned that love is selfless. Always.

But don't misinterpret me: I do not advocate the doormat principle. Unless you're Jesus, the Buddha or some other great spiritual master who can truly take no offence to someone else's bad behaviour, it's not something I would counsel.

Life is too short to let anyone treat you poorly, unlovingly. 

For me, love is something I have to practise every moment of every day, and it's much easier to practise in some moments than others. 

It's easy for me to love when I feel uplifted by life's joys, happy and peaceful; much more difficult when I feel weighed down by life's perceived pressures, stressed and depressed. 

Also, it's clearly much easier – and seemingly more natural – to love some people more than others. The most profound and easy love I have ever felt is for my children. It's hardly an effort to show my love for them in every moment, even when they've drawn on the walls in a permanent black marker, discovered my jewellery box and destroyed every piece in it, or totally disregarded the time and effort I've put in to ensure they've been fed healthy, good food every day (mostly); have a clean and comfortable home to live in; and have a balanced entertainment schedule.

Yes, the cup runneth over with love for my children... can I extend such love to every other person who touches my life? I attempt to.

Which brings me to another insight. 

Love is selfish.

My desire (and attempt) to share and experience love every day in every moment doesn't extend from some wishy washy ideal of world peace and harmony (as if!). Rather, it extends from a selfish wish to keep my heart light, open and at peace.

I don't know of any better drug.

Child's play

[I wrote the following blog for a blogging job I applied for on a parenting website. I didn't get the job, which was a bloody shame because I would've loved to have written a weekly blog post about my number one occupation, parenting. Never have I known such joy, never have I experienced such prolonged sleep deprivation.]

My four-year-old son has an attitude at times that would rival the most surly teenager's, I'm sure of it. (I can feel my friends with teenagers smile.) Yet, I'm curious: from where did this at-ti-tood arise?

"Can you please put your plate in the kitchen?" I asked him today.

"Why do I have to do everything around here?" he replied.

Huh! Where'd he pick that up from? My first instinct is to rummage through my mind to see if that's the sort of thing I'd say. It could well be.

On particularly stressful days, when the alarm of my 20-month-old daughter shrills at 5.30am – "Mum, Mum, Mum..." – I look down the tunnel of the day and already feel exhausted. I know I won't get a real break until they are in bed that evening.

It'll be one chore after the next until day's end: feed the kids, do the dishes, put the wash on, pay the bills, feed the kids, check in on what needs to be done on the work front, hang out the wash, feed the kids, take the kids to the park, buy something for dinner, feed the kids, take the wash in, do the dishes, answer phone calls for work, feed the kids, do the dishes, bath the kids, read books to the kids, put the kids to bed, respond to emails. Phew! It's 9.30pm and I still haven't had a full cup of tea.

Yep, on days like that, you could very well hear me scream, "Why do I have to do everything around here?"

Then, again, maybe it's not me who's planted these ideas into my son's head, but the shows he watches on TV. I figure they're just cartoons, innocent enough, but when I saw a PG advertisement on one of the Foxtel cartoon channels he watches the other day – parental guidance recommended for children under 15 – I started to question my reliance on TV as a babysitter.

Not that I rely on it too much, I don't think. I try to limit it to two hours a day. But I have to be honest. On some days that two hours can become three as I work to fit in one more chore, one more thing to be done, or even a little 'me' time.

However, it's often after he's watched TV that I notice a shift in attitude. He's no longer my delightful and curious four-year-old son with an incredible imagination, who likes to tell his mother the way life is. 

As soon as I turn off the TV he becomes whiny, moody, cheeky and annoying. 

"I was watching that!" he cries as I unceremoniously turn off the TV and shut it behind closed doors.

"I don't care, you've watched enough today," I reply.

"I haven't watched hardly any shows," he moans.

"You've just watched two hours of TV. That's enough."

"It's NOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!"

After the initial outburst, it's usually another hour of whiny behaviour before he finally awakens to life and finds interest in other things, like a room full of toys!, and I see that curious four-year-old imagination take him to unexplored places once again.

TV has certainly become a tool I've used to keep my son entertained while I get on with things that need to be done, or to simple get an hour or two of 'me' time, but I'd like to think there's other things my son can do to entertain himself. I know there's the whole outside world to explore, but we live in a small flat, so that's not an option, unless I'm with him.

I think it's important that children learn to be with themselves without the stimulus of TV or computer games, or having to be constantly entertained by Mum and Dad, but I wonder what are the best ways to encourage this?

I have since found out! For the past two weeks, I've only let my son watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. After breakfast, instead of lying back zonked out in front of the TV, my son has headed to his room and discovered his toys. He's found Lego, Mr Potato Head and friends, a collection of cars and trucks, Thomas the Tank Engine train set, sticker books, even his stuffed toys have featured in elaborate plays. 

The bonus? My 21-month-old daughter doesn't like TV and when it's on and big brother is distracted, she insists I sit down and read her every single nursery rhyme book in the house – five times over! However, when big brother plays, she loves to play with him, and I can happily get on with the things that need to be done... like reading the morning paper.

Starry-eyed

I don't watch the Oscars every year, but whenever I do, it's guaranteed to bring a few tears... of joy, mostly. Except the year when our considerably talented Cate Blanchett lost to the moderately talented Gwynneth Paltry... sorry, Paltrow.

This year, however, there was no such disappointment. Penelope Cruz, Heath Ledger (how graceful his family's acceptance speech!), Kate Winslet and, the shuddering climax for me, Sean Penn. Sorry, Brad, I love you too (and can't wait to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button), but my hopes were pinned on Sean. "Sean Penn, Sean Penn, Sean Penn...," I chanted as the envelope was opened, and left a quivering mess after his name was called.

I know there are many other awards deservedly presented to the amazingly talented people behind the scenes, and I enjoy watching them receive those too, but mostly I love to lounge in front of the TV, a bedraggled blob, legs hairy, eyebrows unruly, hair in knotted disarray, and watch the perfectly groomed, coiffed, bejewelled and dressed stars glow. Its brightness illuminates my world.

The brilliance of film – when it is good, of course (and even that is subjective) – is that it can entertain and transport us away from the humdrum of our everyday lives; inspire us to move towards our own dreams and fight for our own causes (well, at least in our imaginations); and generally enrich our lives, with its ability to visually relay a good story. It is the power of a good story, after all, that connects us, unites us and reminds us of our own humanity in its various guises and disguises. 

Of course, there are other creative mediums that can be used to the same effect, books my personal favourite. Yet, fame and celebrity is mostly unique to film – its typically film actors and actresses on the A list rather than authors or theatre actors. To those with the talent to entertain on the big screen, we gift stardom. And on Oscar night it seems a wonderfully bright, shiny, fantastical world of the extraordinarily talented, the wonderfully entertaining and the incredibly beautiful. And, at times, the exceptionally courageous... anyone remember Michael Moore's Oscar speech?

I'm entranced by the whole spectacular illusion... until I next see a trashy women's mag.

I love the glitz and glamour pics of the stars in these mags, but do I want to read the bullshit articles? No! On the odd occasion that I have, I barely make it through the first paragraph, let alone the whole story. They bore me because the writers, if you can call 'em that, have looked at a couple of old dodgy pics, usually unrelated, and created a half-arsed story about 'em. I mean, who really gives a shit if Jennifer Aniston bumped into Brangelina at some bullshit restaurant? It's time to move on! 

If you're gonna make up a story, at least make it a good one, one that befits a star rather than reflects your poor, pathetic uneventful lives. The star who lost her baby belly in five minutes was a good one, but that's been done to death now. Time to find another far fetched story to go with those bikini shots.

Editors of trashy women's mags, listen to me: stop trying to spoil my starry-eyed impressions of A-list stars. Stars are not mere mortals, they are, well, stars, that's why they earn obscene amounts of money... so they can glitz themselves up to twinkle brightly and thus illuminate our worlds. 

Besides, I'm more interested in the roles they play on the big screen, and how expertly they can entertain, transport, inspire and enrich my life. It's here that I can discover and experience true brilliance.