Selfish

LETTER TO THE READER

Hello, dear reader!

Thank you for picking up this book. Was it the cover that piqued your interest? That luscious hair of mine streaming over my shoulders in the photo?

Or . . . was it the title?

But why? After all, who really wants to be *selfish*?

Being called selfish is hurtful. It implies that you’re too demanding, inconsiderate of others’ needs. That you fail to put your family/friends/partner/colleagues first. It states that you’re taking up too much space.

We’re told by our parents, our friends, our teachers, our colleagues and society that we must be unselfish. Put others first. Think of others at all times. Care for others before ourselves. Be selfless.

But what if doing that is a cause of resentment, burnout, frustration, family disharmony, and a lack of fulfilment?

What if there’s another way to look at selfish? What if we turn this trait on its head and look at it as a way to fill our lives rather than to empty our bodies and souls at other people’s altars?

I think the word needs a rebrand. So, fuck it, I’m claiming it as my own.

Allow me to explain . . .

INTRODUCTION

This book starts with – of all things – a man and some hot chocolate.

The man is my man. My partner in life, the father of my children.

He’s a kind, lovely and generous person. I was caught in a fire a decade ago and burned really badly to 65 per cent of my body. He selflessly took care of me, changed my wounds, fed me soup, drove me to appointments and then supported me in every single one of my endeavours. Right now, he’s sitting on the couch while he talks to his mate on the phone.

I’m in the kitchen, trying to prepare dinner for our two delightful children whose bodies have temporarily been inhabited by psychopathic screaming banshees. They are threatening each other with pronged utensils. They’ve knocked over the glasses of calcium-enriched milk I prepared for them earlier.

I’m pretty sure the meatballs are almost done, but my son Hakavai likes them ‘COOKED, MUM.’ As I try to manoeuvre them around the hotplate, I’m enduring sparks of searing oil on my wrist.

My phone rings. It’s a colleague and we frantically talk about a project that’s going live tonight in between the searing of meatballs and the screaming of children. The TV is blaring, and there’s a persistent thud from behind my skull. I know I’m a fraction away from blasting out my steam, so I choose instead to have a large gulp of my wine.

Meatballs on the plates, vegetables prepared earlier, tomato sauce on the table. I get the washing out of the laundry and hang it on the line while I yell at everyone to sit down. I eat my meal while making a mental grocery list. Nappies, milk, bread, butter, apples.

I offer to make a hot chocolate with Hakavai, as I’m trying to teach him cooking skills. I’m also trying to teach him financial skills, so I’ve outlined three weekly chores he needs to do to be paid his weekly pocket money of two dollars. We count his money together as I’m getting out the hot chocolate, Rahiti on my hip.

Hakavai hates the hot chocolate I’ve bought. ‘IT’S THE WRONG ONE! WHY DID YOU GET THE WRONG ONE?’ he berates me in his best angry-person voice, his beautiful eyebrows knotted in disappointment, his feet stamping; he’s even shaking his hand at me.

Once again I feel like screaming, demanding he pull his head in, how dare he speak like that to his mother, and telling him to go to bed without a hot chocolate because I give zero fucks at this point.

Instead, I calmly ask, ‘Well, why don’t you ask Daddy to get the hot chocolate you like?’

And Hakavai says, ‘No. It’s your job to get it.’

At the tender age of four, an age full of innocence and childlike wonder at the world, my son has identified that it’s MY JOB to get the hot chocolate.

Through whatever subliminal messaging is out there (me? Is it me? Dear god, tell me it isn’t me?), my four-year-old has identified, and articulated, that it is his mother’s job to remember the hot chocolate her son likes.

Women, as a rule, have a lot on their plate. You’re expected to be a great mum, prepare the lunches, go to work, make the money, keep yourself looking good (Bey has twins and Blake has four children so why is it so hard for you?), but not be a selfish bitch because you have CHILDREN – so prioritise them. You also need to prioritise your partner, and your parents, and your partner’s parents, and your colleagues, and your friends – you mustn’t forget your friends. You must remember birthdays (only a bad woman would forget birthdays), that the dishwasher fixer is coming today, that your boss wants those reports, that your cat needs de-fleaing, that your two-year-old needs their hat for daycare.

I love having a happy household, I love cooking nutritious food for my family, I love getting along with my partner . . . so even though it’s not ‘fair’ that it’s my job to remember the hot chocolate, isn’t it easier to accept this? Isn’t it easier going with the flow and looking good and being nice and being polite and being a considerate mum so that I make everyone else happy and comfortable?

Is that my role, as a mum and partner and boss? To facilitate the lives of those I love and work with, but not to love the life I live?

The tension

The night of the hot chocolate, after my family went to sleep, I poured myself another glass of wine and went outside to think. We’d moved a few months before from the temperate south coast of New South Wales to hot and humid Far North Queensland. Moved away from friends and family (a.k.a. our support network) as Michael had a new job as a helicopter pilot. Moving was stressful, starting a new job was stressful, not having any help with young kids was stressful . . . and we’d done all three at once.

I was in a spiral. I felt like no matter how hard I tried, no matter if I meticulously planned my day, no matter if I started my day with a green smoothie, no matter if I tried to get up before the kids and meditate, no matter if I listed out all of my to do’s and all of my actionables . . .

. . . something always fell through the cracks. Getting the wrong hot chocolate, for one.

I felt like Michael and I often bickered. I felt stressed by work.I felt like I wanted to be a better parent but sometimes, despite my best intentions, I was irritable and tired and not a lot of fun with my kids. To be honest, I often felt overwhelmed by spinning all the plates and responsibilities and commitments. I felt like I was suffocating underneath the Everything.

And I didn’t want that. I wanted to be present with my kids, not distracted. I wanted to be able to marvel at their intelligence and grace and cuteness, and not be wondering which chore to do next. I wanted to stop wasting time on stuff that didn’t really matter and yet had to be done. I wanted to be a more patient, serene, attentive parent and partner without feeling guilty when I wasn’t parenting or partnering. I wanted not to feel guilty if I wasn’t productive. I wanted to stop feeling guilty, full stop.

I wanted Michael and me to have more fun. I wanted to be more light-hearted, not to take everything so seriously, to feel I could achieve my own goals. I wanted to wake up in the morning full of energy, I wanted to be a playful mum, I wanted to be kind to my spunky man, I wanted to stop scrolling, I wanted to stop driving off with my coffee on the roof of my car.

I wondered if there was a way to enjoy this expansive and magical life that I get to live with my boyfriend and kids, to do everything and be everything to everyone, but also to be a Someone to myself.

I thought that maybe I could do a ‘project’ on this. Though ‘doing and being everything to everyone but also being someone to myself’ was maybe not very marketable.

I wasn’t looking to ‘have it all’. When I was growing up, my mum seemed to be someone who ‘had it all’ – four kids, a job and a successful writing career – but she was stressed a lot of the time. And eventually she and my dad divorced.

I thought harder. Maybe I needed to prioritise myself and my own wellbeing. Darisay, put on my own oxygen mask first. Be ‘selfish’ with my energy, my time.

I hesitated writing those words. It felt uncomfortable.

Surely no one wants to be selfish . . . do they?