I wonder if any of the other parents at my kid’s school worry about the things I do. If they’re as paranoid or macabre as me. I didn’t always feel this uneasiness when I entered a school. I’ve dedicated most of my career to education—working as a teacher, an education reporter, and in public affairs for the teacher’s union. I know better. My husband, a journalist, reminds me that the odds are greater that our kids will get hit by a car, so I should worry more about making sure to hold their hands tight in the mobbed Costco parking lot. He’s right. Schools are safer now than they were in the 1990s. Shootings like the one at Sandy Hook are rare. Less than 1 percent of all youth homicides in this country happen at a school, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

And yet, Sandy Hook somehow disconnected the rational part of me from the emotional, and since then, I haven’t been able to shake the anxious feeling that overcomes me when I get near a school.

Every morning, the school principal at my daughter’s school stands with the staff by the drop-off lane—with a parka, gloves, rubber raincoat, galoshes or whatever the weather calls for—helping students out of their booster or car seats, for the littlest 3-year-olds in the preschool class.

I rarely use the drop-off lane. I want to see my daughter’s classroom. I park our minivan on a side street, buckle my 2-year-old into the stroller, and prod her big sister up the hill so she doesn’t get a late card. By this point, I’ve worn out the words “hurry,” “let’s go,” and “move it.” They bounce off her as she collects stray leaves for her leaf collection.

I breathe and try to remember to live in the moment—to just let her live like a child.

The metal school gates are wide open, no buzz needed to get onto the campus at drop-off time. What a handsome school, I think, every time we walk up to the four-story red Gothic building. It was built 1902 and previously used as a Marist Seminary. The school is on the edge of the area in Washington, D.C., known as Little Rome because of all the Catholic institutions clustered close to one another. My own faith falters, but I still hope the prayers that once filled this building left residue, enough to create an invisible shield.

I case the joint every time I walk inside. It’s what journalists do. The main hallway is narrow and always congested, the walls lined with wooden cubbies that hold grubby backpacks, sleeping mats, and jackets. A hundred zao shang hao’s and zai jian’s flitter through the air as teachers, students, and parents greet each other good morning and hug each other goodbye. The vibe is always warm in this school.

I follow as my younger daughter toddles slowly behind her big sister, the school pro, all confidence in her light-up shoes and mismatched clothes she picked herself. I glance into the classrooms, through glass windows that give me a clear view of pre-K 4 kids noshing on a post-breakfast snack or preparing a make-believe meal in the tiny kitchen in the dramatic play center. I like how the windows into the hallway make the classrooms feel more open, how they let the light from the outside shine through. But really, I don’t like those windows. The better to see you with, I think.