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It was probably fitting we found out that Emmeline had been accepted into a preschool when we were at the salvage yard out past Hunter’s Point and the ports of San Francisco, playing in an abandoned bathtub and picking through broken bits of glass and leftover marble scraps from someone’s delightful new kitchen.

Finally, I thought — if only for a few hours a week, finally she can have a normal existence.

No longer would she scurry around the city from day to day, a street child straight out of the Bicycle Thief — poking through dirt and junk, dilapidated playgrounds, thrift stores and fabric depots. She would sit in a shining class for a few hours a week and do arts and crafts, maybe sing songs and, hopefully, make buddies. On the phone, the director was talking about sending out a letter of acceptance, and it was all I could do not to break down, watching Emme pretend to swim in the rusted-out, empty bathtub.

“Daddy swims, too,” she said, waving me over, “Come on, daddy — Daddy swims with Emme.”

She bobbed her head in the make-believe water, her arms rising and falling above and below the broken enamel lip.

I have failed her.

She is not prepared. Just the other day, she formed her fingers into a diamond and sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She was so happy. She’s a little over 2 now, and this is something any 9-month-old can do. Sure, whenever you tell her to “stop,” her answer is a toss up between shouting “Hammer Time!” or singing, “Collaborate and listen.”

But how does this help anything?

I’m so sorry, kid.

I know it’s not college. I know preschool prepares you for everything else to come, but it’s your first big milestone and I suddenly feel I have let you down.

After the surprise phone call, we dug through a bin of glass rocks together.

“Hey, Emme,” I began, “I’ve got some good news.”

I tried to tell her about preschool — about what she’ll do there and all the fun she’ll have. She listened to me talk about painting, about easels and horse-hair brushes. She wanted to know about songs and what she could do with Play-Doh. I told her about playtime and lunch breaks. I said she could have her very own lunch pail.

“Emme’s going to like preschool,” she smiled, pausing for a moment.

She picked up a rock and together we watched it shine in the breaking mid-morning light. She tossed it into the bin and looked up hopefully.

“Daddy’s going to like preschool, too?” she asked, “Daddy stays with Emme at preschool? Daddy and Emme go to preschool together? Daddy and Emme will paint!”

Please don’t make this harder than it is, kid. Because thankfully, your father is not allowed.