We’d moved him here to this small private school from public school for second grade, when the fact that he’d entered kindergarten without knowing his letters had reached such a fevered pitch of concern on the school’s part that they practically forced us into medicating him for depression. Gary and I would have been happy to agree to that if he’d indeed been depressed, but we both knew what being a sad child looked and felt like, and Teddy wasn’t a sad child. Except when he was in school. When he wasn’t in school he was full of energy and glee, playing with the boys down the street all day outside and becoming a tiny monster-guitarist at the nearby music school that was run by one of Gary’s old friends. But no matter what we told the team of special educators who came together every few months to review Teddy’s individualized education program (IEP), and no matter how much I tried to convince them that Gary and I weren’t against medication at all—in fact, we were extremely pro-meds (“Between the two of us, we keep most of the big psycho-pharmaceutical companies in business!” I’d joke, until they looked at me like I had a bird on my head)—it never did any good. My explanations sounded like excuses, the kind every middle-aged mother made when she was desperately clinging to her own distorted version of reality. The fact that Teddy might have a minor learning delay and some processing issues—what was now called executive functioning—not depression—was never discussed until we applied to Morningside Montessori and an informal diagnosis was made based on the assessments and school progress reports we submitted for admission.

Just as I start to back away from the crowd to look for Teddy in earnest, Mr. Noah begins the school’s daily briefing. He claps his hands close to his chest, then mimes for everyone to sit down. “Time for morning meeting, Peace Pals.”

In seconds, peace prevails, and there is the soft thud of a room full of little and medium-size bodies dropping to sit on the wooden floor. My eyes fill the way they often do now, at the tiniest moments of grace or beauty, always without warning. I find a wall to lean against, then wipe my nose on the back of my hand, then take a deep cleansing breath to signal to my body and brain that it is time to focus on the News of the Day.

“Our annual intensive all-school deep-dive Autumn Inhabitancy begins soon, which we’re very excited about,” Mr. Noah says, holding a large photo above his head of a group of people in animal costumes. From where I’m sitting, I think I can make out a cow, a horse, and maybe a moose. “This year, for something new and very different, the People Puppet Theater is coming all the way from Vermont. They’ll need room and board for a few weeks, so ask your parents if you can be a host family.” He stops to gasp. “I mean, how fun would that be? To have real live People Puppets in your house? Puppets-in-residence! It reminds me of college!” He stops to sigh wistfully. I squint, and though I can’t be certain, I think one of the layers of clothing he’s wearing—T-shirt, oxford cloth button-down, lightweight quilted down vest, cotton neck-smock—is some kind of bib. “But this morning we’re very excited to have Teddy Vogel’s mom visiting us for Bring-Your-Parent-or-Grandparent-or-Beloved-Guardian-to-School Day.”