This past weekend, Sophie  performed onstage at the Herberger Theater in downtown Phoenix for the third year in a row. The production is Snow Queen and as far as I know, Sophie’s the only kid with special needs (definitely the only one with Down syndrome) who’s ever been in this show, sort of a Nutcracker alternative presented by Center Dance Ensemble, a modern dance company run by my mother’s longtime friend and business partner.

Hence, the in. Annabelle first performed in Snow Queen when she was 6; we waited much longer for Sophie to audition. The last two years, Sophie was a sprite, the role reserved for the youngest kids. She’s so small I figured she’d stay with that, but this year the (very kind) producers said she was ready to be a “village lass.”

Turns out, they were right.

“Sophie’s internet connection’s just a little slow,” Ray stage-whispered (not unkindly) as we watched her heel-and-toe across the floor Sunday afternoon. It’s true. She had trouble keeping up, but she did it — and made up for what she lacked in speed with a sassy hand-on-hip attitude that got progressively stronger with each of the four performances, til I was half-joking that if there’d been a fifth performance she might have ripped off her shirt, a la Fat Amy in Pitch Perfect.

Even better than what happened onstage was what happened backstage: Nothing. Yes, she probably asked a few more questions than the other kids, might have wandered out of the dressing room a couple times to chat with older cast members, but for the most part, Sophie was one of the crowd.

It was awesome. She played games with the other girls, shared snacks, lined up for curtain call — just like they did. Only one asked me why Sophie was 10 and a half and smaller than the others. (A legitimate question.)

Saturday evening, I volunteered backstage and got to see it all firsthand. At one point I was chatting with one of the stage managers, who made some comment about “The Village” (the scene Sophie’s in) and suddenly, out of nowhere (but always lurking, I suppose) the term “village idiot” popped into my head.

Oh great, Sophie’s the village idiot! I thought to myself. I sat down and Googled the phrase. It’s unclear whether the expression refers to people with Down syndrome, which wasn’t formally identified until the middle of the Nineteenth Century, long after the heyday of the old school town clown.

I sat still in my chair as the chaos of the theater swirled, blinking hard, thinking. I got up and found Sophie, sitting with several other cast members — again, one of the crowd.

Stop it, I thought. And I did. No village idiots here, people. Move along. Nothing to see. Just another cute village lass with bright red lips.

This morning I woke up and realized that Special Olympics cheerleading begins tonight. It’s about as different an experience as you can imagine. Sophie’s just as excited for it.

To be honest, so am I — after a lot of hesitation last year. Both can be tough. Sophie doesn’t fit easily into either world, and as her mom, neither do I.

But Sophie loves to perform. And I love to watch. All the world’s (and all the worlds) her stage. So far, anyway.

“Hey Mom, look!”

I glanced up from the computer the other morning to notice Sophie standing at the kitchen counter, all the way up on her tippy toes. I mean all the way. In her sparkly purple Toms.

This could explain why those shoes are so trashed — the ends are basically gone. I’m hoping Annabelle can save them with duct tape. (If she can’t, no one can.)

“Sophie, get off your toes!” I barked. “That’s dangerous! You could really hurt yourself!”

“I’m holding on,” she protested, grabbing the formica.

That’s what Annabelle says when I yell when she stands on her toes. At least she’s wearing actual pointe shoes — given to her last year on her 10th birthday by my over-eager mother (who, as Annabelle’s dance teacher, herself prohibits her students from taking pointe class til they are at least 11). The pointe shoes sat in the closet for months, but as 11 gets closer (July) for Annabelle, and she watches other girls on pointe in ballet class, she’s getting excited. So she’s taken to wearing the pointe shoes around the house, encased in socks, standing for a moment or two at a time at the counter. Although even that is officially prohibited til she is 11.

Sophie didn’t get that memo.

“Look at me!” she said to Ray.

“Wow, Sophie! That’s awe-”

I shot him a look across the kitchen.

“That’s, er, um, no. Sophie, don’t do that,” Ray said.

“It’s not safe,” I said.

“Yeah,” Ray said. “You can’t do that til you’re at least-”

“HONEY!” I barked (again), shooting more daggers.

“Oh,” he said, suddenly understanding — and looking really sad.

We both quickly changed the subject. But I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things Annabelle will get to do in her lifetime that Sophie will never be ready for.

Later at work that morning, it was still bugging me, and suddenly I wondered that maybe I was wrong (and had I even — this is embarrassing — written a blog post on this very topic years ago?!). I started Googling. Within seconds, I was watching a young girl with Down syndrome dance a solo on pointe.

I stand corrected.

There were a lot of comments on the year-old YouTube video, and I quickly realized that not everyone was a fan of the girl’s technique, which I thought was pretty good (I certainly couldn’t do that) and some questions about safety.

I chose not to read the comments or worry about the debate. Til Sophie’s at least 11. And the rest of the day, I felt like dancing.