JANUARY 13 — Love is a curious thing.

Poets of yore would talk of moving mountains and sailing treacherous seas, basically putting their lives on the line, just to get to their one, true love.

Based on this premise, Disney — the ubiquitous purveyor of fairy tale dreams and mouse-eared paraphernalia — made a killing by brainwashing millions of pre-pubescent girls into believing that love is defined by the “happily ever after.”

If only these kids knew.

Yes, it was love that brought my wife and I together into the rollercoaster union that society calls marriage.

Similar to those Disney princess stories, there were figurative dragons to slay and mountains (of debt!) to climb to reach that special day when we walked down the aisle.

But those multi-million dollar blockbuster movies forgot to mention that not everybody has their weight in gold to pay for a lavish wedding, and more importantly, how to deal with the frightening prospect of parenthood.

A situation in which my wife and I have recently found ourselves.

Thousands upon thousands of books, websites and blog entries, never mind religious texts, will tell you that becoming a parent is one of the greatest things anyone can experience, something that will “give your life meaning.”

I have to admit that there is this unwavering feeling of joy that has firmly rooted itself in the cockles of my heart, knowing that my son was born healthy and strong — albeit with a fierce temper and appetite.

But if we were to focus our argument for parenthood on giving my life meaning, I was a bit stumped.

Of course my wife and I love him to bits and we definitely will do a lot of things to make sure he grows up to be a healthy, well-adjusted person with a mind of his own.

I still did not see how that tied in with the so-called overarching theme of “meaning” though.

I tried digging through the ever-increasing pile of poo-stained laundry for clues to that piece of wisdom apparently shared by the countless parenting experts. No dice.

My sleep-starved mind was convinced the alleged “meaning” was merely a disingenuous claim made by self-styled child-rearing gurus trying their best to rack up book sales and page clicks.

Then, something happened.

Late one night after a serious feeding session that left my wife drained (most of you mummies would know what I'm talking about), I took the boy in my arms so his mother — still exhausted from literally popping out a miniature human just a few days earlier — could sneak in some shut eye.

At 3.28am, amid the chirping crickets hidden away in the brush surrounding my in-laws’ home in the sleepy district of Penampang, my son gazed up at me with a look of angelic serenity.

It was almost as if his unblinking eyes were telling me; “Why the rush, papa?”

Indeed. Why the rush?

The thought made me smile, thinking I had been blessed with one small epiphany that would help shed light on how exactly my understanding of “meaning” to my life would change.

As contentment welled up in me, I looked back down at my son, and with the calmest expression, he let rip a huge “FRAAAAAAAP!!!” from inside his diapers.

Poop and life's insight. How ironic.

* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.