When my son was two, he snagged the attention of a dishevelled and glowering man at the shops. "What's wrong with him?" he grunted. "Nothing. He's perfect," I snapped. "Well," he allowed, "at least he's got all his own teeth."

This was true, if irrelevant, since my son has Down syndrome, and dental health will probably be a lower priority for him than overcoming other prejudices based on his looks.

It might seem weird, but often we forget. He's just our cheeky, funny boy, whose every achievement sparks joy and gratitude. At three, he likes Shaun the Sheep, wearing a tutu over his shorts, and singing uproarious songs about poo. He became our template for "normal", and it's a shock when we remember others might think differently.

When I was visiting childcare centres, and told one staff member he had Down syndrome, she said, "What a shame." Did she mean, without it he could have been not only cute but smart? Or a better person? We'll never know; without it he'd be someone else. I found a place that said instead, "Let's see how we can support him to join in."

It was a steep learning curve early on. We were scared, and awash with love; our baby needed heart surgery, thyroid medication, tubes and monitors. When they confirmed the diagnosis, we asked what it would mean. "Well," said one of the doctors, "he'll never go to university." (This was not only hugely unhelpful but potentially untrue.) What we'd meant was, Will he have friends, a safe home, meaningful work? Will he be loved? The doctors couldn't help.