said his mom, Helaine. “Especially baseball and the Baltimore Orioles.” It was the fall of 1998, a few months after returning from Spain, and Allen and I were at parents’ night at the beginning of Henry’s first year in preschool. A group of about twenty-five moms and dads sat on small blue plastic chairs arranged in a circle. I sat next to the cubbies, each carefully labeled with a student’s name and his or her photo, and filled with a change of clothes and some extra diapers and wipes. Henry’s cubby featured a photo of him riding the black panther on the carousel in Central Park. Like many preschool classrooms, the bulletin boards were covered with the letters of the alphabet and colorful photographs. The bookshelves were filled with classics, like The Three Billy Goats Gruff and Where the Wild Things Are. There was a dress-up corner with costumes, and an art table overflowing with paints and brushes, markers, and Play-Doh. Henry’s teacher Liane, Bella’s mom, had welcomed us, and suggested that we each share something special about our child to help us get to know one another.
