I know what that feeling is. When you see someone and an imaginary spear has gone through your ribcage and you suddenly can’t breathe or move. When even a flashing memory of them completely robs you of your ability to concentrate, and all you want to do is lose yourself in the images of them that start flooding the space behind your eyes. I feel those feelings.

Last Friday I picked Megan up from school. Sometimes I dare never ask the question, as it often results in an answer that starts with a long preparatory inhalation and ends at bedtime. But last Friday I plucked myself to say to her, “So, Megan, how was your day?”

Somewhere in the middle of her story was a minuet of a moment when she recalled how her new teacher had posited that in his day children who were naughty were spanked and how he thought that it wasn’t such a bad thing, that it toughens kids up and sets them on a straighter path than the one today’s children are following. I asked her how she felt about it and she giggled and said, in a plumbed-up English accent, “I was mortally offended. I think I should write a letter to the department!” We suspended all conversation for a few minutes to giggle like eight-year old girls and cackle like 37-year old men.

Then she got serious and said, “You know dad I didn’t think of it at the time but now I think what he said wasn’t right. You know, I don’t think anybody should hit anyone else, no matter how bad they are. I think I’m going to tell him that on Monday.” I became stoned in silence, while the phrases flooded my head: My daughter said that. My daughter. My little girl. Only eight years old and already taking the world by its horns.

Later that evening AJ and I sat on the couch so he could teach me how to say different colours in sign language, a project his day-care teachers have made a learning priority for the month. It took me a little while but I managed to get the hang of about eight colours, and we made a game of it where I would write the colours on his arms and face while singing the words to a made-up tune. Brown, white and black would tickle him and he’d giggle, getting ever more excited as he sang along.

While watching his eyes and mouth get brighter as he laughed and sang I was positive that the walls would start crumbling as the light from his smile would cause an eruption, and the only way I could deal with the immensity of it was to scream out “Yay!”, which only made him laugh harder. Megan, who arose from the depths of her Harry Potter decided to join in, and we sang and laughed until we fell off the couch onto the floor, rolling around. I felt like my ribs were losing their strength and my heart and lungs would burst, causing an awful mess on the carpet.

All the plans I’ve made in my life, all the goals I’ve set for myself, all the achievements I’ve made, have not allowed me to understand why I’ve been given these moments, or why these jewels should want to show themselves in my presence. In these instances I feel completely undeserved, robbed of any value, in comparison to the size of the joy that has swallowed me whole. And there is nothing, not words, not tears, no gratitude that can even measure the feeling, let alone respond to it. Only the desire to keep on feeling.