Time and time again, Ashley and I will say to one another, "I love him." Ashley will be sitting quietly, checking his email after dinner, while I stand at the sink washing dishes, and I will be thinking of Eoin. "I love him," I will announce, and Ashley, instantly there with me, in love, will agree, "He's amazing." We will be lying in bed, and I will be sure Ashley is asleep, until his voice in the dark says, "I love him." I know, me too. Ashley will be in the bedroom folding laundry, and handling Eoin's little pants and little shirts will touch him so deeply that he will have to come find me to hug me and say, "I love him." Last night, when I said to Ashley, "I love him," Ashley replied, "It's almost unbearable sometimes, isn't it?" Yes.

What amazes me most about this unbearable, unspeakable love is, it's actually quite ordinary . I go to baby groups and watch other moms, I watch my friends and my family with their children, I watch parents in the grocery store, and I see this love everywhere. This love Ashley and I feel, with a depth and an intensity that we have never known, is, by and large, what everyone feels for their children. And I guess they always have, and I guess they always will.

From childhood until now, I think that I have had an ever darkening world view. As I grew, I seemed to encounter more jealousy, more weakness, more greed, more cruelty, more danger. And then I had Eoin, and my eyes were opened to the immense ocean of love that floats families. As long as there are children, this love will buoy us, and hope will glow on the horizon.

Walking along the seawall last week, on my way to Granville Island, Eoin and I passed a woman seated on the grass at the edge of the path. I'm pretty sure she was practicing laughter yoga, an exercise that takes the wisdom, "laughter is the the best medicine" very seriously. It works on the premise, "Fake it 'til you make it."

"Ha ha ha ha ha, ho ho ho ho ho, aha ha ha ha ha," was blasting across False Creek. The woman, alone on the grass, was laughing like a lunatic.

"Weirdo," I was thinking, just as a couple of energetic, power-walking women were passing me from the opposite direction. They were watching the laughing woman too, only with big smiles on their faces. They chimed in with her, calling out, "Do you mind if we laugh with you?" Surely nothing could have delighted the laughter yogi more, and she called back exuberantly, "You sure can!" and for a moment, the three women shared a genuine chuckle.

It was only a moment. An instant later, the power-walkers were gone, and the woman's laughter was fading behind me. It was then that I noticed that my face was still pinched in a scowl of judgment. I had looked at the laughter yogi and only seen how pathetic she was, whereas the zippy power-walkers had seen an opportunity to have a laugh. Suddenly, I felt like the pathetic one. Instead of optimism, cheer, and good-humour, I chose cynicism. And what did that earn me? No mid-afternoon laughter, no spark of connection with a stranger - just deeper wrinkles. I felt humbled and inspired by the women on the seawall.

I was telling Ashley about this on Sunday, as we were hiking around Elfin Lake in Squamish - telling him about the lesson I'd learned on my walk to Granville Island. In the telling of my story, I mimicked the laughter yogi. My ha-ha-ha's rang out in the woods - I have to admit, my laugh sounded pretty authentic. I caught sight, then, of my baby. Strapped to his father's chest, Eoin had been listening to my story too. His face was broke wide open in a grin. My laughter had tickled him pink, and he was watching me, waiting for more, and poised to join in.

He gets it.

How is it that Eoin already finds burps, farts, and sneezes hilarious?