If you are a man between the ages of 20 and 50 and have dared, in public, to engage a strange child in conversation, then you are familiar with the Perv Glare. Most often encountered at shopping malls and other populist venues, the Perv Glare is the single male’s burden for 20 years of McMartin preschool trials, Wenatchee witch hunts, and Believe the Children bumper stickers. It usually happens like this: You’re browsing the magazine rack at Crown Books when a strange 4-year-old waddles up and kneecaps you with his red plastic bat. You look down at him; he laughs and does it again.

Should you attempt to enjoy or prolong his little game, you will immediately set off a storewide radar. Every patron and clerk will lock onto you with sidelong glares that let you know, “You so much as breathe on that boy and we’ll fucking serve your lungs for lunch, Humbert.” If you’re lucky, little Markie McGwire’s mother will spot her cub in trouble and come running. She will jerk his arm and pull him away, but not before freezing you with a look that both wonders what kind of monster you are and memorizes your features for the sketch artist. If she’s not around, you have two options: Flee, or announce “WHERE’S YOUR MOMMY?” as loud as you possibly can.

It pisses me off and saddens me. I won’t even look at a kid without my wife around, and if one approaches I’ll scare him off with a nasty look rather than risk the Perv. But I’ll soon be leaving this assumed Humbert status. My wife and I are having one of our own, which will turn me from potential molester to snugli-safe father. And I look forward to talking with children again.