The annual ballet recital was Sunday.

The girls were cool as cucumbers — see  the photos above and below (taken just moments before the performance) for proof. But I was a wreck.

I knew it didn’t matter a bit, what happened on stage. This particular studio rents the fanciest space in town for its recital, and fills the huge place to overflowing (the studio’s that popular) but the teachers don’t care a bit (in a good way) if your kid does anything more than have a good time onstage.

But since this particular studio happens to be run by my mother, and since I have the one kid in more than 100 with obvious special needs, the pressure is on. All self-imposed, I know. Still. It didn’t help matters that in last year’s recital, Sophie surpassed all expectations. She was stunning in “Teddy Bear Picnic” — knew every step, behaved beautifully. I had a bad feeling about this year, a feeling she would do something show-stopping. And not in a good way.

Class had not gone well this year. Annabelle was thriving in three separate classes, but Sophie’s teacher left mid-year, replaced by another who left mid-semester, and we’d decided against putting someone one-on-one in the class with Sophie, figuring that had become a crutch. I rethought that two weeks before the recital, when, during a rehearsal in class, I noticed Sophie wandering around the room, completely uninterested, causing mild bits of trouble. She’s never bonded with any of the girls in her class, unusual for my gregarious girl.

Looking back, I think maybe she was bored.

The truth is that sometimes ballet — like some things we ask kids to do, that are good for them — can be a little boring. Repetitious, grueling (in its 4,5 and 6 year old way — trust me, this isn’t hard stuff). But Sophie insisted she liked going to class, and I know it’s important to her to be part of something that’s such a big deal in our family, so we got her some one-on-one help, a sweet 11-year-old named Maddie.

That was fine, until Sophie started spontaneously breaking away from the group to hug and kiss Maddie. I pictured this happening on the big stage and sighed.

But hey, it is what it is, right?

And so this past Sunday, I was a little anxious. Sophie was really excited. For the first time in weeks, she agreed to wear her requisite blue leotard and pink tights, instead of insisting on her Project Runway tee shirt or a lavender tutu. She took the stage for rehearsal and through the tiny screen on my Flip camera, I realized that little stinker knew that dance backward and forward. You couldn’t tell she was different from any of the other kids. (Not that that’s what I’m looking for, people! Well, okay, maybe that’s what I was looking for this past Sunday.)

“OK, Sophie, just do what you did in rehearsal,” I said, as I struggled to pin the silver pipe cleaner crown on her head, and pinned on the butterfly wings. “And what are you not going to do?!”

“I not going to run offstage or hug or kiss anyone,” she said, dutifully and very convincingly.

“Or wave?”

“Or wave. I no wave, Mommy.”

Then the audience poured in. We couldn’t see him, but we knew Ray was someplace, and Sophie kept asking about it. We snuck down a few rows to say hi to Annabelle, then my dad arrived, and then Sophie’s absolute best friend in the entire world, Sarah, came in with her mom. Sophie shook with excitement, itching to get over to Sarah, but there was no time. The show was about to begin.

I pictured her leaping off the stage, mid-dance in front of hundreds of people, screaming, “Hi Sarah! Hi Sarah! Hi Sarah!”

She did ask for Sarah throughout the first four numbers, right up to the time we got up to go to the stage.

“Don’t forget, Sophie!” I said, hugging her.

“OK, Mommy! I no wave.” She took her place in line on the stage as Dolly Parton’s “Love is Like a Butterfly” began.

And she was absolutely beautiful, just like everyone else’s kid was beautiful that day, including the three year old in another class who stood completely frozen for her entire number, just staring off into space til the song ended and the teacher dragged her off. But really, Sophie knew all the steps and she did them, I even noticed her instructing a couple of other kids, though I’m not sure anyone else would have known that’s what she was doing. She stood in line when it was time to stand in line, and did her free dance when it was time for that.

Then it was time for the leaps. It’s the big moment in the spotlight for these kids, a touch I really love. The girls line up and take turns running across the stage, hopefully catching a little air. Sophie had a huge smile on her face as she took her turn, racing across, wings flapping, pipe cleaner crown bouncing.

And then it happened. It was quick, but I saw it in slow motion, as she realized this was her Moment and, with an impish grin, lifted her hand and gave a great big wave. I cringed, then looked around.

I know I’m her mom, but I have to say it: Sophie brought down the house. The entire place ahhhhhed, then cheered, and I’m pretty sure every person in the place felt like that wave was meant just for them.

That’s cool. I happen to know she was waving to her BFF, who is already signed up for a week of dance camp together with Sophie, starting just after school ends. Sarah’s mom drove her across town, missing church (a very big deal in their family) and bringing tears to my eyes when I saw them at the entrance to the auditorium; they’d come just to see Sophie.

Sarah and her mom know the importance of friendship. And so does my kid. Silly dance recital. Who cares? For Sophie, it’s all about the wave.

As it should be.

Because we could all use a dose of this right about now. Ray took this photo a while ago, as he was preparing to take the girls for a bike ride.

Of course it’s going to happen when you least expect it. I can never seem to remember that.

Annabelle was invited to a birthday party last night. Normally I’m not a fan of the school night birthday party, but this was one of her best friends, Bhavini — a BFF since kindergarten — and chances are good that this is the last time they’ll celebrate Bhavini’s birthday together. She and her mother will likely return to India this summer.

Bhavini is one of those kids who takes things literally, so she wanted to celebrate her birthday ON THE EXACT DAY. Her mom respects that, and so do I, so that’s how I found myself in such a rush last night, running from work to grab Annabelle at after care, racing her to her piano lesson then calling the sitter on the way to Bhavini’s to warn her I’d be late getting home to Sophie.

I’d figured I’d drop Annabelle at Bhavini’s apartment, go home and feed Sophie, maybe get her homework done (there’s never much) and Ray would be home by then so I could run back to get Annabelle when the party was over.

I didn’t realize I was expected to stay at the party. Damn it. I didn’t want to offend the hostess — Annabelle was one of just two friends invited, the rest of the guests were Bhavini’s mom’s friends, made slowly and carefully in the four years they’ve lived in this odd place, apart from their own friends and family in India. In four years, I’d never been invited in.

I quickly explained that Sophie was at home. Maybe I could go home, get her, and come back together?

Of course, Vandala said.

OK, phew. I sped home and spent precious minutes waking Sophie up — it’s odd to find her asleep at 6:45, but not completely unheard of. She was excited to go out for dinner, which seemed like the quickest way to get her fed and get over to Vandala’s.

One of the joys of living in a college town, even this rather sterile one, is that there’s great food nearby. We hit one of the, oh, two dozen Thai places in a half-mile radius, and giggled over satay for me and a big bowl of white rice for Sophie. She ate several bites of chicken. Success.

At the end of the meal, the waitress brought mints. Not the totally hard kind, these are sort of a butter mint. Last time we were at this restaurant, Sophie put one in her mouth and immediately spit it out, so I was surprised she even wanted me to open the package.

I could swear I saw her spit that mint out.

I quickly paid the check, checking the time. Late, of course. It was 7:45 and the party ended at 8. I’d said we’d be back at 7:30. Crap.

I buckled Sophie into her booster seat, still giggly and excited to go to the big girls’ party. We started the two block drive to the apartment complex.

Lately we have been listening to Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious way too loudly on the car stereo, but luckily there was no time for music, so I could hear it loud and clear, when Sophie started wretching. Clearly, she’d thrown up.

My first thought: OH SHIT! That’s why she was so tired earlier, she’s getting sick. My second thought: DAMN, I just got my car washed.

I pulled over — we were on a side street — and hopped out to assess the damage. My kids are both big barfers, so I was expecting a big mess and a crying, but totally ok kid.

I blinked hard, my worse-every-day-eyes struggling in the twilight. There was no vomit.

Sophie was choking. It was the mint.

Oh my god, OHMYFUCKINGGOD, how did I let that happen? I’m entrusted with this tiny person’s life, and look what I have done. Look at her. LOOK AT HER. Do something!

“Sophie are you choking?” I asked. She nodded. And then, the scariest question I think a mom can ask a kid.

“Can you breathe?”

No, she couldn’t breathe. Later, Annabelle would ask if Sophie’s eyes got really big. They did. Her face was bright red and her mouth was wide open and her hands were waving.

I reached for the buckle and grabbed her out of the seat. How long do you have when someone is choking? I have no idea. I stood in the street holding her and she dangled from my fingertips like she weighed nothing, even though I’ve been telling her lately that she’s almost too heavy to pick up.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did what you do when someone is choking. I did the Heimlich Maneuver.

Or my version of it, anyway. I faced her away from me, shoved the heels of my hands up under her diaphram and pushed upward, trying to picture the diagrams.

And I screamed. It’s a busy area, but of course this is metropolitan Phoenix, so somehow there was no one around. One guy was walking by, a skinny, sweet-faced kid on a cell phone.

“HELP ME! HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” I screamed. “MY DAUGHTER IS CHOKING!”

He just  stood there and looked at me. I looked at him, as I kept pushing. An SUV pulled up, and a guy a little older than the first guy got out.

“HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME SOMEBODY HELP ME! SOMEBODY, SOMEBODY, HELP ME!” That was all I could think of to say.

The SUV guy pulled out his phone and dialed 911. There was no time for 911, was there? Fuck, how long do you have when your kid is choking?

The worst part is that when someone is choking, they don’t make any noise.

I kept pushing, and screaming as though I didn’t see these guys right in front of me, and right as the 911 operated answered, the kid pointed and we all looked down, and there it was. The mint. It was dark now, and the mint glowed white.

I turned Sophie around to face me. “Are you ok? Can you breath now?”

She nodded. I grabbed her up in my arms, only now realizing that my car was still running.

“She’s ok,” I said. “I think she’s ok.”

The guy with the SUV pulled the phone from his ear to ask me, “Do you want them to send the paramedics?”

I shook my head. He thanked the 911 operator and hung up.

We stood there in the street, the two young men, Sophie and me.

“I’m Steve,” said the guy with the SUV.

“I’m Neil,” the kid said. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Neither did I!”

Sophie introduced herself, then I remembered to introduce myself, and we all stood there, a little awkward. I thanked them profusely, and they were on their way. I stood for a minute in the street, holding Sophie tight, not saying anything.

“I’m okay, Mommy,” she said in my ear.

We got back in the car and drove to Bhavini’s apartment. Climbing the stairs, we talked about how scary it was. Sophie turned to me and said, “I didn’t cry!”

It’s true. Even after the mint was out, she didn’t get upset.

“Me either, Soph,” I said. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I think we’re both in shock.”

She agreed.

Later, after she’d eaten some pizza and played “Life” with the big girls, we drove home and Sophie told Annabelle the story. We passed the Thai restaurant and Sophie pointed.

“That place is bad. I don’t want to go back there,” she said, pointing to its neighbor. “Next time we go to McDonald’s.”

“Ok, Sophie,” I said. “Next time we’ll go to McDonald’s.”

And to all a good night.

But before I pass out here on the living room couch, I’ll leave you with one of my favorites from the platter of food for thought served up at  the annual Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event yesterday.

This one’s a quote I’d never heard —  from Jackie Onassis, who said, “If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do matters very much.”

Amy: Hey, Annabelle, want to write something on my blog for Mother’s Day?

Sophie: I do!

Amy: You can help. What do you think, Annabelle?

Annabelle: You write something.

Amy: Yeah, but it’s Mother’s Day. You don’t want to write something to me?

Annabelle: You’re not supposed to ask for that.

In honor of Teacher Appreciation Week, we gathered the family around the table last night and came up with a list of things we love about Sophie’s teacher, Ms. Y.

I could write a book on the topic, but I think this is a good start. All four of us — Sophie, Annabelle, Ray and I — contributed. I thought it was notable that both Annabelle and I came up with “She is patient.”

She is, and a lot of other things:

25 Things We Love About Ms. Y

1. I love her.

2. She teaches me about math.

3. We watched two “Moby” movies.

4. I love her skin.

5. And her hair.

6. She is peaceful.

7. She’s a very good teacher.

8. She’s so cute.

9. And funny.

10. She’s pretty.

11. She’s a very good writer.

12. She’s friendly.

13. She has good taste in music.

14. She lets Sophie slip in to class late without a late slip sometimes.

15. I love her stuff.

16. She is patient.

17. When I’m writing, it’s so quiet.

18. She helps me.

19. I love her body.

20. She says, “Oh, what happened?” a lot.

21. She’s friendly.

22. She told us about www.thelongthread.com

23. She is beautiful.

24. She has a lot of style.

25. I want to keep her.

A word about the photo: I was walking in from lunch, wondering what I’d put since I can’t put a photo of the anonymous teacher, when I noticed a prickly pear cactus making a perfect heart — something Ms. Y would particularly appreciate, I think. Kismet!

Just about nine years ago, I was exploding with child. I’m pretty sure my condition was my sole qualification for teaching the writing class, then sponsored by the YMCA, called Mothers Write. I almost said no when someone asked me to do it.

I’m so glad I accepted.

Many years — and dozens of workshops and students later — I’m almost up to the task. Lucky to have been a part of this amazing thing now called Mothers Who Write, and grateful for and to my co-teacher, Deborah Sussman Susser.

Join us this Saturday, May 8 at 2 pm at Scottsdale Center for the Arts for a free (though not kid appropriate!) reading by two dozen of our current and former students.  

Our next workshop begins in September; details here.

Just what the world needs: another blog.

I hope so.

A couple weeks ago, we started a culture blog at Phoenix New Times (my day job). It’s called Jackalope Ranch. Given the shit show currently playing itself out on the national stage — starring my home state — it’s frankly nice to write and read about art and design and movies (and anything else we want to write about) for a change.

If you need a breather, come hang out with us.

I learned a very important lesson from my third grade teacher.

Before third grade, I had no idea what body odor was. But after a few months in Mrs. R.’s class, I realized that when I sat in the front of the class, it smelled funny. In the back of the class, not so much.

It was many years til I put together her polyester pant suits and the extreme heat to explain the funky scent, but I distinctly remember wrapping up third grade with some good knowledge in my pocket: Sometimes people smell.

That’s about all I remember from third grade. That, and that I barfed all over my desk once.

Annabelle is having a much different experience. Her teacher rocks — she’s engaging, energetic, kind, and she smells good. AB made her a little gift for Teacher Appreciation Week, out of a “twirly paper” kit I bought her in a weak moment last week. The gift is a replica of the teacher’s desk, complete with apple, pencil and fish tank.

It’s hard to make out the details in the photo, but all you really need to see is Annabelle’s smile.

Promise me promise me promise me you’ll watch this trailer.

(And thanks to StarrLife for posting it. Now I’m off to grab some Kleenex.)