About 40 minutes into Sophie’s hour-long ballet class this past Monday, the classroom door opened and I heard the teacher’s voice.

“Amy!” she called loudly, her voice carrying over the heads of a dozen or so parents standing in the narrow hallway. “Sophie’s done for today.”

I jumped up from my seat. Sophie stood in the hall in her navy blue leotard, looking a little sheepish. She’d managed to escape the classroom — again.

“I told Sophie that if she can’t act like the other kids, she can’t be in class,” the teacher said (still loudly) as she turned to walk back into the classroom.

The words hung in the air, and before they’d disappeared, I caught the looks on the faces of two of my favorite fellow moms.

I fought the tears stinging my eyes as Sophie came running and jumped into my arms.

“Can I have my Olivia toy now?!” she asked.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, of course not. You didn’t do what you promised.”

We’d cut a deal on the way to ballet. Both Annabelle and Sophie have class at 4, and school ends across town at 3:30, so every week it’s a mad dash to get off the school grounds, into the car, over to the studio, into leotards and to class.

This is not a big deal for Annabelle, a veteran. She eats her snack in the car, knows to run straight to the dressing room when we arrive at the studio. When I noticed there was a class for Sophie’s age at the same time this fall, I figured I’d sign her up, too. She’s taken Saturday classes for a few years now; why not Mondays?

I can tell you why not. The school day is long, and Sophie gets tired. She doesn’t like to be rushed. Trying to convince her to go to the bathroom before class is like trying to get a Democrat elected in 2010. But this week, I thought I had the asnwer: an Olivia the Pig play set I found on eBay and was saving for Hanukkah. I told Sophie that if she went to the bathroom, put her leotard on without a fuss and stayed in the classroom for the whole hour, she could have a special Olivia toy when we got home.

It was going so well, til the classroom door opened. And here’s the thing. I was mad at the teacher for what she said (and the way she said it) but I was — I am — even madder at myself. I’m the one who’s agreed each week with the teacher that Sophie shouldn’t be allowed to escape, that Sophie, in effect, should act like the other kids.

And maybe we were right. Maybe Sophie is perfectly capable of behaving, and she’s just shining us on for grins.

But maybe not. And if not, shame on me. There was something about the way the teacher said it, said that Sophie has to act like the other kids, that made something in me go Ping! and the lightbulb go off. Sophie’s not like the other kids. She never will be. And I’ve got to figure out how to deal with that, in matters both large and small.

“Can I have my Olivia toy now?!” Sophie asked.

“Yes,” I said, hugging her, hiding my tears in her hair. “As soon as we get home.”

She squeezed me tight around the neck, then climbed down and found a book of Shel Silverstein’s poetry.

Class over, the teacher patted Sophie on the head and said, “See you next week!”

No, I told her, you won’t. For now, we’ll stick to Saturdays.

Quietly, one of my mom friends asked a good question. “How will Sophie feel about that?”

Crap.

That night, for the first time ever, Sophie stood at the kitchen table, pretending it was the barre, and showed me her some of her moves. Of course.

At least we’ll have Saturdays, I thought.

It was just dance class. But I’ve thought about what happened all week, unable to write about it, which as you know is not like me. It was just one of those moments that was so charged, and so symbolic of so much that’s going on right now with Sophie.

The special ed teacher called this afternoon to say that Sophie pulled the teacher’s hair today when she was told to put a book away. That is not my Sophie. At dinner, she tells my father school is too hard. She’s frustrated. And if second grade is too much, wait til she gets to third.

I put a call in to a special ed lawyer today. I need an outside opinon about what to do about school. I’ve needed one for a long time. That moment in ballet class was a much-needed kick in the pants. We can walk away from Monday ballet lessons — even if it’s painful — with no real ramifications. But we can’t walk away from school. Or life. I need to figure this stuff out.

It’s growing pains. I know that. I have a new friend at work. She’s very young and very wise. And very tall – six feet. Just last week we were talking about nothing in particular and she told me about how when she was a little kid, it seemed that every time she got a fever, she grew.

Sitting with Sophie for those last few minutes of ballet class the other day, I thought about my friend’s story. It’s funny. For as shitty as I felt about what happened, and my own culpability in it, when the girls and I walked out of the studio that day — on our way home, to get that Olivia toy — I felt a little taller. Or at least like I was starting to figure something out.