I don’t like how people look at Graham these days.

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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