My son has a scar. It’s a pale line down the center of his nose that’s visible only in certain light, but I know it’s there. He got it at a park in Brooklyn, where no dogs are allowed, but where an unleashed pit bull charged at him, full speed, when he crawled a few feet from our blanket onto the grass.

He was just a year old then, and it was the first time I saw my child hurt by the world we live in. As I talked to the dog owner — more calmly than I thought I could — while our son’s face was streaked with blood, I thought of how much he loved dogs. The moment revealed to me one of the most important acts for a parent: protecting your children while still preserving their sense of freedom.

Last June, I held my husband’s hand in front of the Stonewall Inn in Manhattan while our son, then 3, sat atop my shoulders. There was glitter on the street, drumbeats in the air and a man in a yellow wig holding out rainbow flags. Our boy grabbed one. But as the crowd snapped photos of him waving his flag, I felt an involuntary need to protect him from judgment.

We were at the annual drag march in Greenwich Village that honors the origin of the rainbow flag, a proclamation of visibility for L.G.B.T. people. We’d come to celebrate, but I was concerned about letting my kid hold up a symbol he couldn’t fully understand. It was a surprising feeling for me. And it was especially surprising to be feeling it while surrounded by drag queens.