I have scattered memories from preschool, like the little hut with grapes and vines on the ceiling. I also remember napping on a braided rug and the musty smell of it. One time we made some sort of potato concoction on a hotplate like a college student would use. My friend Peter and I cowed those things down while sitting crossed-legged on carpet squares. I also remember the stone-floored lobby. But mostly I remember crying.

Every preschool in the world has that kid who can’t separate from his parents. The kid with the striped shirt and uncombed hair who sobs and falls to the floor.

I was that kid. What a pleasure I must have been.

One day at home, my father told me, “I have something for you.” He pulled a half dollar out his pocket and asked, “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” I said.

“It’s a magic coin,” he told me. I had never seen one like it, so I decided that it must be true. “Here’s how it works. Keep it in your pocket, and whenever you feel scared or sad, you just rub the coin, and you’ll feel better.”

The next day I went to school with my magic coin. I clearly remember reaching into the pocket of my corduroys and rubbing John Kennedy’s face. The fact is, it worked. The coin made me remember my father’s kind words and attention. I also recall the day I handed it back and said, “I don’t need this anymore.”

Now it’s my turn to play magician. Last week was William’s start as a “Downstairs Boy,” or his second year of preschool. It’s been hit or miss. On Wednesday he was enthusiastic but that waned on Thursday and he spent Friday morning wailing. This week is up for grabs. For all I know, he’ll love every minute of it.

If not, I’m ready.

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