The night starts off with the top dog standing in front of a packed auditorium, selling all of us on the idea that what our children are about to receive in the form of another year of education at their fine institution is a spectacular blend of academic learning, extracurricular opportunities, social growth and development, and personal inspiration.

Ah, can’t you just hear the academic angels singing?

Somewhere in that magical evening known as Back to School Night, the principal and his or her vice-principal minions suggest how spectacular the teachers are, how magnificent the community is, how incredible the resources are and, most of all, how wonderful the parents are for being involved and coming to this Evening of Champions.

These people who are in these top academic positions are often doctors, although they’re not the kind with stethoscopes and they don’t have a waiting room full of old copies of People magazine.

They assure us that they’re people, too, and that they’ve been where we are. They know what it’s like to have someone they’ve brought into the world treat them as if they’re somewhere between an athlete’s foot fungus and a pimple surfacing on the tip of their nose just before the most incredible moment of their lives.

But, wait, there’s more. Their teachers tell us what they’ll learn, they smile, shake our hands — and assure us how excited they are to be sharing in this experience with our wonderful children.

Wonderful? Seriously? We can only hope that’s the case when they’re in school because the “wonderful” has been squeezed out of them by hormones that turn their voices into violins with broken strings, by their tough-love coaches, and by their would-be girlfriends and boyfriends who have decided that today is perfect to send them a text saying, “Sorry, we can’t date anymore because I’m looking for someone better.”

It’s almost like one of those old-fashioned sing-alongs, where we watch teachers with their Smart Boards at the front of the room, following the bouncing ball as it wows us with one after another of the stops on the journey to enlightenment.

For comic relief, we might get to hear from a teacher who seems about as comfortable speaking in public as I did when I was in seventh grade. He might look down at his feet as he talks, read from a script or take two huge gulps before each sentence. Speaking in front of a group of people, we realize quickly, is not exactly the ideal way to spend his day.

As they talk, they tell us how much they love a subject that, truth be told, might not be their first choice. However, the nearest district hiring biology teachers is an hour away and our school desperately needs a language arts teacher. They implore us to share information about our kids. That’s when we reach into our sales bag and suggest how eager our children are to fill their minds with inspiration and information. We plaster an enthusiastic smile on our faces as we hand in our creative writing assignments.

We emerge from the school, ready to take all that sales energy and turn ourselves into cheerleaders for education and our children.

“Oh, honey, I met your science teacher last night and she seemed so spectacular.”

“That’s interesting, Dad, because my science teacher is a man.”

“Wait, are you joking?”

The children share a devilish smile, pick up their heavy backpacks and trudge off to a place where the sounds in the real world corridors — real and in their own heads — are often nothing like a chorus of those academic angels.

Disney has owned the imagination of children’s minds for decades. When I was a child, I certainly was well aware of Mickey Mouse and all his pals. “Mic” — see you real soon — “key” — why? Because we like you — “Mouse.” The catchy and inviting songs and cartoons helped define my childhood, much the way endless texting, emojis and Taylor Swift songs do for this generation.

Recently, we took our son to the Broadway production of “Aladdin.” While the singing, dancing, staging, choreography, sets and lighting were truly spectacular, something occurred to me. What role do parents play in these Disney stories, which become the foundation of our children’s cultural legends?

Looking at Aladdin himself, the Broadway version suggests he loved his parents and that he thinks they were spectacular people. That’s nice, but they are gone from the picture, which makes them invisible saints, who help by inspiring him to be better or reminding him from a distance that he hasn’t done much with his life besides living as a “street rat” with a heart.

Then, there’s the ridiculous, all-powerful sultan. He has educated his daughter and given her a chance to think for herself. Ultimately, though, he wants her to get married so her husband can rule the kingdom. That’s an inconsistent message from one of the many single parents Disney has brought to life.

How, exactly, can he not notice that his evil adviser manipulates him and is clearly out for his throne? Despite Jasmine’s fury with Jafar, the sultan doesn’t see Jafar for what he is. It seems this well-intentioned wealthy man who lives in a spectacular castle doesn’t listen to his daughter.

In “Beauty and the Beast,” Belle’s father Maurice, who is also a single parent, is an absent-minded genius she has to protect. Peter Pan? He takes kids away from their parents to Never Never Land. In “The Little Mermaid,” Ariel runs away from her father Triton to pursue a life — and a love — he has forbidden. Looking for Ariel’s mother? She’s not under or above the sea.

Speaking of a child without a mother, in “Finding Nemo” poor Nemo grows up under the overprotective fin of his humorless clownfish father Marlin. Sure, Marlin is heroic but he has a long journey, physically and emotionally, to find his son — and in a way, himself.

I don’t recall seeing Cinderella’s father at all, leaving her with the evil stepmother — seems like a bad call on the father’s part there, too — and her horrible stepsisters.

Maybe taking away parents — or turning them into buffoons — creates plot points that these heroes have to overcome. It gives them a chance to learn to trust themselves and their friends and to believe in who they are. I realize the stories aren’t about the parents and maybe, in some backhanded way, these stories encourage kids to find courage when their parents can’t simply hand it to them or purchase it online from Amazon.

I guess there wouldn’t be as much of a heroic role for a child who helped conquer something just by learning or listening to his well-intentioned parents or to grandparents who attend every concert and are eager to hear about school.

Taking parents away, or giving them questionable judgment, creates opportunities for kids to take control of their perilous lives.

Perhaps Disney has bequeathed real-life parents a gift through all these invisible or flawed guardians. It gives the rest of us a chance to say, “I messed up here, honey, but it could be worse: I could be a Disney parent.”

Hello, ladies,” the gentleman at the front door said. The blushing and grinning reminded me of middle school, where the athletic star walks into a room and the girls swooned.

Except that, in this case, it wasn’t a group of middle school girls, it was their middle-aged mothers.

“Hey, bub,” I wanted to shout, “back here, behind the considerably taller women sits a man.”

Of course, I didn’t say that, because I didn’t want to stand out, or even up, for that matter. I had a good seat and was waiting for a key moment to contribute something or to clear out.

I was at a do-gooders gathering. That’s not the name of it, because people don’t generally come up with such generic sounding names for a collection of people who want to make a change, to help people, to make a difference in the world. But, really, that’s what they were.

Why were they there? Who knows? I didn’t ask them. I suppose it could have been that they all felt a strong calling to contribute. It could have also been that they had friends who would be there that night and they wanted to do their part, alongside their close friends, to effect change. Or maybe it was because they were required to be there, because their daughters played on a sports team and the parents of the team captains had the responsibility to make sure everyone, and they meant everyone, as email after email said, attended and contributed.

After all, for this effort to be successful, they needed 100 percent participation. Lovely, lovely, lovely. But wait; I seem to recall reading this book called The Chocolate War, which kept springing to mind as I was furiously typing details of this meeting to my wife.

For instance, I told her that I’d never smelled such a powerful combination of floral scents. The host of this gathering had gone deep into the well of potpourri for a scent that, I’m guessing, carried over the river and through the woods all the way to grandma’s house. I also told her that I was the only man in the room and that there was a plate of cookies in the center of the island that no one touched.

Anyway, in The Chocolate War, by Robert Cormier, Jerry Renault, on an assignment from a group of unofficial student leaders, is told not to sell chocolates as part of a fundraising campaign. When the assignment ends and he’s supposed to decide to accept the chocolates, he continues to refuse. Ultimately, he suffers serious consequences from rebelling against the school and the Vigils, the student thugs who effectively run the school.

I’m not suggesting that these delightful women, with their floral-scented kitchens and earnest, sincere, and heartfelt grins and plans are anything like the Vigils. They are working toward a great cause and are encouraging complete participation. But, something feels wrong about the compulsory nature of a good act.

Instead of everyone working for one, particular effort, perhaps this group could encourage full participation in a charity, good cause or effort of each player, or a family-choice activity. I get it, of course. The complete effort of the players and all their families could easily be greater than the sum of the parts of small efforts from each person.

Maybe it was because I was the only man in the room, or maybe it was because I am such a fan of The Chocolate War, but I couldn’t help wondering if there was a coercive undercurrent to all this cheerleading.