I am often posed the question, usually by strangers, of whether or not my son can walk. It’s not the question that gets me cooking: it’s the expectant, waiting faces that get me every time. The faces usually switch from hopeful to disappointed when I say “he used to walk.” It’s a bit awkward.

In another dimension (possibly one with no Donald Trump or heat-advisory warnings), instead of “he used to walk,” I would just sit them down and read this essay, just to reinforce the fact that EVERYTHING IS COOL AND WALKING IS SO 2015.