We put some barrettes in his very short hair and took the traditional first-day-of-school pictures. They’re all a little blurry because he was too excited to stand still, but it doesn’t matter because that joyful smile is all you see anyway.

My husband and I took deep breaths and walked him to school. For my son’s part, he fairly floated, seemingly unconcerned. Having decided, he was sure.

The things I imagined happening fell into opposite categories, but both transpired. A lot of children didn’t notice, didn’t care or stared briefly before moving on. But there were a few who pestered him on the playground and in the hallways, who teased or pressed, who covered their mouths and laughed and pointed and would not be dissuaded by our carefully rehearsed answers.

That lasted longer than I had expected, but it was mostly over within the month.

At the end of that first week, when he was going to bed on Friday night, he was upset about something — weepy, cranky and irritable. He couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me what the problem was. His eyes were wet, his fists balled, his face stormy.

I tucked him in and kissed him good night. I asked, again, what the matter was. I asked, again, what I could do. I told him I couldn’t help if he wouldn’t talk to me. Finally I whispered, “You don’t have to keep wearing skirts and dresses to school, you know. If kids are being mean, if it feels weird, you can absolutely go back to shorts and T-shirts.”

He snapped out of it immediately, sitting up, his face clearing, his eyes drying and brightening. “No, Mama,” he chided. I wish I could say that he did so sweetly, but his tone was more like, Don’t be an idiot. “I already decided about that,” he said. “I never think about that anymore.”