Lucas is the baby of the family. Three years younger than his sister, he’s always been our little guy, and we still refer to him that way.

It’s easy to see him as our baby because many of his early interests have stayed with him. We still watch Sesame Street videos, read board books, and play with LeapFrog electronic toys. My son has remained the same in so many ways since he was a baby, and for that reason, he’ll always be my baby.

But I should also mention that my baby now weighs more than I do, is just a few inches shorter than me, and has budding facial hair that reveals his age far more than his interests do. Given that he’s non-verbal with autism, it’s easy to forget how old he truly is.

Lucas is 13. It snuck up on everyone. Suddenly, we were teaching him how to put on deodorant with the thought, “He has to learn eventually.” At the time, he was small, and seeing this little beefy 8-year-old lifting his arm to rub Right Guard on it was adorable. He was learning for the future, but didn’t really need it then.

For a while, I kept thinking of him as perpetually five years old, with everything he did being in preparation for the future. “One day,” I thought, “he’ll be older, and all these lessons will be necessary.”

Now, a hug on a hot day from my baby sends my head swirling. The deodorant, once a lesson in preparation for adolescence, is now a necessity rather than a drill. He’s a little man now.

There are signs every day, and the older he gets, the harder they are to ignore. Sure, he eats little bags of Pirate’s Booty and still plays Elmo’s ABCs on his iPad, but this baby is a full-grown man in many ways.

I shave his tiny mustache. That about says it all.

He doesn’t do it himself. Heck, we’re still doing hand-over-hand toothbrushing to keep them halfway decent. I never imagined we’d be entering facial hair territory. Now, it’s becoming part of the routine.

When he was a true baby, I couldn’t fathom this. I used to imagine having a special needs son Lucas’s age, and it would terrify me. I know that comes off as blunt, but this situation calls for honesty.

Seeing a dad with a grown child like Lucas in a supermarket would scare me. How could he handle this? It felt so jarring to witness, and I’d imagine how hard it must be for that father – just as I know people imagine that about me.

Well, now I know the truth. It’s not jarring at all, and I’ll tell you why.

When you see someone else’s grown child, your brain makes assumptions. You expect that boy to walk up to you with a deep voice, extend a hand, and say, “Hello, it’s good to meet you.”

When that doesn’t happen, it can take you aback. I understand that and accept that, with Lucas, that’s how it might be for others. That’s how it was for me before I had a boy like this myself.

But my son isn’t some stranger with a mustache. He’s my kid. I see him all the time, and I’ve watched him grow into the young man he is. My brain has no expectation of a firm handshake and an introductory speech. My brain knows this is Lucas—he is all the wonderful things he is, and he happens to be 13.

There’s nothing jarring about having an adolescent non-verbal son. Autism, in all its ways, affects his personality. The struggles and beauty of who he is are all a part of that. This is who Lucas is.

And we love him. That’s the difference. That’s what I wish I knew when he was little, and that’s what I want every parent to know when they fear the future for their children.

Put the time in with your kids. Get to know them. Accept the things they might not do, and celebrate the things they do. Embrace their unique outlook on the world, and as long as it’s not causing harm to them or others, encourage their happiness.

That’s all there is to it. If you do that, nothing else matters. If you love and accept your kid at five, you’ll love and accept them at 50. We have no expectations for Lucas, and he has none for us. We’re a family. All you need to do is be you.

And that’s how I know we’ll always be alright. I dreaded this age when he was two, and now that we’re here, I couldn’t love him any more than I do. He doesn’t need to talk, tie his own shoes, or do trigonometry. He just needs to be the boy I’ve raised him to be, to the best of his ability.

I loved him then. I love him now. I’ll love him in 30 years. Whether I’m strapping him into a high chair, shaving his puberty mustache, or helping him with Just For Men “Touch of Gray” dye, it doesn’t matter. He’s my kid, and he’ll always be perfect.