My own daughter, Violet, started Pre-K at a NYC public school three weeks ago. She is still clinging to my leg and hysterically screaming as I drop her off. Other kids stare at us (show’s over there kids, not here) as they settle into their puzzles. They look at us, sweaty and feral, and one kid speaks for them all, “Is she going to cry again?” Yep, fraid so. In her defense, Violet is four years old and until three weeks ago has pretty much done whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. “Mom, let’s go to turtle park today.” And we did. “Mom, let’s take the dogs to the hot dog stand in Riverside.” Done. Now for six hours (I know, that’s a lot!) she is under Ms. Lorenzo and Ms. Poma’s thumbs (well, mostly in their arms). According to them, two minutes after I leave, she settles in and except for a few quirks (she doesn’t like the teacher to “play music”) she’s part of her community. Thus far: Likes all the kids and the teacher and the playground; does not like “salad.” I’m so proud of her I could bust.