I always thought he didn't like dancing, so when I got the call from a local ballroom dance studio offering a free trial lesson I just chuckled wistfully and hung up.

Turns out it's not that Rob doesn't like dancing, it's that he doesn't like not dancing well. He spent a good part of his early adulthood working throughout the Caribbean where dancing is an art form and people seem born with a beautiful sense of rhythm. His travels left him a little ashamed of his typically, rhythmically-challenged, white, northern-European background and loathe to take to the dance floor.

But lucky for both of us he was ready to learn.

I was five months pregnant when we showed up for our first lesson. We bickered bitterly over his imperative to lead and my apparent inability to let him, but were nonetheless hooked. Before we left we signed up for several more classes.

Dance class became our date night and all that summer and fall my stomach grew as did our competence at the Foxtrot, the Cha-Cha and the Waltz.

We deliberately chose to learn older dances - those choreographed odes to compromise and propriety - because we discovered that we both felt they were classic, old-fashioned arts in danger of being forgotten or passed over for the sweaty, sexy gyrating that dominates dance floors today.

One of my earliest and happiest memories involves dancing with my father. I was about six years old and wearing black, patent-leather shoes which caused me to slip and slide most ungracefully as he expertly lead me through the Jitter-Bug, the Cha-Cha and the Waltz.

I remember feeling simultaneously like a glamorous grown-up and an incompetent little girl as he twirled me about and I tried, and mostly failed, to keep pace. I remember feeling exhilarated and happy and proud, aware that people were watching and smiling at the spectacle.

And then I remember retiring to my seat and watching my dad take my mother's hand and lead her through the same steps. It was as if they had been dancing together forever. One day, I thought, I want to dance with somebody like that.

Rob and I have learned that dancing, real dancing, is about so much more than moving to the music.

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It was a holiday and we spent it entertaining a dear friend from university, her husband and their two children, aged six years and nine months. The kids played and splashed in the pool and the adults attempted to visit and enjoy a meal.

And it was busy.

Neither entertaining nor visiting are quite the same when little ones are underfoot. There are glorious messes made of carefully chosen food and drink. There is constant running and fetching. There are conversations interrupted in mid-sentence by a cry or a shriek or worse, a prolonged silence.

And so it was with no small sense of satisfaction that a few hours in I finally exhaled on our deck, lifted a glass of wine and congratulated myself on pulling off a warm and welcoming afternoon: the meal had been enjoyed, the parents were relaxing and the kids were safely tucked away in the downstairs playroom.

But just moments later I caught my breath when my friend's husband returned from a check downstairs clutching Graham's hand. My son was sobbing as if his little heart would break.

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We knew we couldn't afford it, but we took to dropping by during the months it languished on the market, chatting up the owner, an elderly Austrian man, in the hopes that maybe he would see that we were meant to have it, despite our limited financial resources.

And on one such visit he told us about Charlie.

She was a pretty girl, he said, despite her advancing age. Many nights she didn't have the means to feed her family and so she would tap on the back door. He didn't mind. He had grown used to seeing her silhouette in the moonlight. He had grown to depend on her dependence.

"I worry," he said. "I worry that whoever buys this house won't look out for Charlie like I do, that they won't care about her. She's old now. She needs me."

We will, we promised him. We will look after Charlie.

And he nodded. A deal is a deal.

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They used to smile indulgently, but now I see trepidation in their eyes. They used to coo over his baby fat, but now they look him up and down, silently assessing the potential for disruption contained in his strong limbs. 

Their affection used to be unconditional, now they have their reservations.

My son is growing up. He’s not a baby anymore: he’s a little boy. 

And that changes everything.

Graham is extremely tall and he looks older than his two and a half years. People have always assumed he should be just a little more capable than he actually is.

When he was 11 months old I was approached by someone who assumed he was at least two and asked in a hushed tone, “Why isn’t he walking yet?” Just last month someone else asked if I were having “problems” potty training: she thought he was around four.

These cloaked admonishments, I now realize, are just a taste of what is to come. Because while people coo over babies, they have expectations for children. They expect Graham to act and react in a certain way. They expected him to be well-behaved. They expect that he will not infringe on their right to privacy or silence or serenity in general.

I know this is inevitable. I know it is just the very first step for Graham as he embarks on a life where he will most certainly have responsibilities to fulfill and expectations to meet: I wouldn’t have it any other way

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