In our Christmas-loving house, the days following Dec. 25 can be a sugar-coated letdown. But one member of the family is clearly relieved that the holiday is over. Sophie never really did embrace the Christmas spirit this year — which is weird, considering she’s always been my Santa-believing, carol-singing, present-obsessed kid. But this year she refused to watch Elf and begged me to take down the tree as soon as the last gift was opened on Christmas morning.

It could be that her belief in Santa has morphed into a healthy fear of Santa, or, more likely, that — seeing how much I love Christmas — Sophie decided this year to push back. Maybe it’s just 12-and-a-half-year-old hormones.

In any case, there’s one thing I know she’ll miss about the holiday season: Snow Queen.

We are a ballet family, but my girls don’t dream of sugarplum fairies, or long to be Clara. No Nutcracker for us. Instead, each September Annabelle and Sophie cram into a classroom at their dance studio with kids from all over town to audition for Snow Queen. This original Phoenix production doesn’t involve Swarovski crystal-studded costumes or perfect rows of soldiers. But my kids and their classmates adore it, and others do, too — performances sold out this year, Snow Queen’s 25th season.

Every year, dozens of little girls dream of being the rose princess (a grown-up role played gorgeously by one of my mom’s former students), or at least of being a rosebud, one of four tiny dancers poised behind the princess as she casts a spell over a pile of rose petals that will eventually help Gerda, the heroine, rescue her hero Kai from the evil Snow Queen.

This was Sophie’s fourth year in Snow Queen. By the time Annabelle was her age, she’d been a rosebud several times, and had already moved onto other parts. But Sophie is still the size of a 6-year-old, and was cast in less-demanding roles. The rosebud role is not easy — it requires real ballet skill and,  perhaps more important, the ability to stay still for hunks of time. That’s not easy for my nose-picking, crotch-tugging, wave-sneaking Sophie.

The rosebud is my favorite role in the show. My mom always rehearses the rosebuds and for years, before I had my own kids, I watched her ballet students hit that releve at the end of the dance in unison with the rose princess, arms in synch, waving gracefully as the lights dimmed. My eyes always teared up, and when I finally had my own little girl, I sobbed, watching Annabelle point her toes and wave her arms.

I braced myself, positive Sophie would never be a rosebud. She started late and took on smaller roles — a goofy sprite, a sweet village lass. I think she and I were both prepared for her to be a sprite again this year when I heard that Sophie was going to be considered for rosebud.

I know we were both nervous, the day of auditions. Sophie nailed it — no fidgeting, she got all the moves right. From the beginning it was clear that this role was a stretch, and Sophie worked hard; my mom burned the music on a CD and Annabelle ran the dance with her sister in our kitchen, calling out the moves, snapping her fingers to keep time.

Some days, Sophie didn’t want to rehearse. She snuck into the room where the sprites were practicing. She was teetering on the edge of her comfort zone and I wondered, was this a good idea? Who are we doing this for? But just when I thought she’d give up, each time Sophie pulled it together, asking me to turn on the music. Sometimes she’d make me leave the room; other times she’d ask me to videotape.

The morning of the first day of the show (the girls perform four times in a weekend, twice on Saturday and twice Sunday) my mom called to remind me to have Annabelle do a run-through with Sophie. She did — several times — and we headed downtown for costumes and make up. Annabelle was a grown-up lady in waiting, dancing with the big girls. Sophie took her place with the other tiny ballerinas.

I sat in the audience for the first performance, holding my breath as the too-familiar music began. There was Sophie, dancing the role that so many of my mom’s little girls — including Annabelle — had danced before her. As far as I know, she’s the only kid with special needs who has ever taken the stage during Snow Queen, certainly the only one with Down syndrome, and watching her go through her paces onstage that afternoon, I wondered how obvious it was. Like many people with Down syndrome, Sophie sticks out her tongue when she concentrates, and she was concentrating hard. She knew every move, but her technique was choppy, as though she doesn’t always have complete control over her motor skills — which she does not.

But she had moments of real grace, too, instances where it was clear that Sophie comes from a ballet family, just like Annabelle, a line that most definitely skipped my sister and me but that extends back to my mother, their teacher. Watching her rehearse the rosebud role this fall, noticing the position of her fingers or the way she stretched her leg, and how much she truly loves to dance, I realized that for the first time in her 12-plus years, I wondered what Sophie would be like if she didn’t have Down syndrome. For all my struggles to accept the fact she had it, I’d never tried to separate her from it, never wondered if she’d dance like her sister if she had 46 chromosomes instead of 47.

She did it, that Saturday afternoon. Sophie danced the role of the rosebud beautifully, gracefully, with her own flourishes for sure, but she did it. I could breathe again.

Saturday night, the whole thing fell apart. At 12, Sophie was much older than her fellow rosebuds, and I’m not sure exactly what happened — a late night, some understandable confusion, I was backstage and didn’t see the performance — all four of the little girls were off. The director, Frances Cohen, my mom’s business partner, swooped in, grabbed Annabelle and sent her to the costumer.

On Sunday, Frances announced, there would be five rosebuds. She was double-casting Annabelle.

“Oh shit,” I thought, knowing better than to say a word. Annabelle, who had been called in plenty of times to fill in for a sick or missing rosebud, but never to be a fifth, also kept quiet, but I knew she was not happy.  She didn’t want to upstage anyone, least of all her sister.

But the director’s word is final, and, as it turns out, Frances was right.

The next afternoon, Annabelle took the stage with the others girls, standing in front so they could follow along. All five danced beautifully. No one seemed upset, least of all Sophie, who was clearly thrilled to be onstage with her sister.

That night, during the final performance, there was a moment during the dance where all five rosebuds spread their arms, leaning in to watch Gerda and the rose princess, and — clearly unable to help herself — Sophie slowly reached out her fingers to touch her sister’s hand.

I cried. I cried because, come on, that was the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I cried because both my girls danced beautifully. I cried because I know this is not the last time Annabelle will need to take the stage — in some form — to help her sister.

Two weeks later, we’re all still covered with glitter from the stage make up, but my mom and Annabelle have moved on to talking about the spring ballet recital.

Sophie, however, isn’t quite done with Snow Queen. On Christmas morning, after the presents had been ripped open and the stockings emptied, Sophie snuck out of the living room. Through the kitchen door, I caught a glimpse of a leap, then swooping arms. It took me a moment to realize what she was doing.

The rosebud dance.

“My Heart Can’t Even Believe It: A Story of Science, Love, and Down Syndrome” will be published by Woodbine House April 15. You can pre-order it from Changing Hands Bookstore and come to my release party May 1 or pre-order on Amazon. For more information about tour dates visit myheartcantevenbelieveit.com and here’s a book trailer.

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.

“Where’s Sophie?”

I’d been wondering if anyone would ask. It was almost halfway through the Saturday night performance of the Snow Queen, and the sprites — already covered in green glitter, hair teased in ponytails all over their little heads – were putting on their unitards and wings, getting ready for their scene.

Sophie’s chair was empty, her costume untouched.

This had all been decided way ahead of time. When they cast Sophie as a sprite, the show’s directors announced that while the other kids would perform in two shows a day (a matinee and an evening performance) Sophie would just perform at the matinees. “She’ll get too tired otherwise,” I was told.

To be honest, I wasa little bummed, knowing that Annabelle not only would perform in all the shows but in two different roles (a rosebud and a snowflake!), quite a coup. But I kept my mouth shut. This was a big deal for the directors as well as for Sophie. There are enough balls to be kept in the air at this production without my adorable little wild card thrown in the mix.

We decided Ray would take Sophie to Chuck E. Cheese Saturday evening, and go home with her best friend Sunday.

Watching Sophie fall asleep at the table when we got a snack after that first matinee show, I realized the director had been right. She was tired. And the distractions worked beautifully. Ray hustled her off to see Chuck E. and I brought Annabelle back to the theater for the evening performance, where I’d volunteered to work backstage. All good.

But no one thought to explain to the other kids why Sophie wouldn’t be there Saturday night.

“Where’s Sophie?” one sprite asked, then the others started asking. “Where’s Sophie? Where’s Sophie? Why isn’t Sophie here?”

My favorite little sprite (aside from Sophie, of course), a tiny blonde named Gillian, chimed in, sounding alarmed: “Sophie just has to be here!”

I looked at the backstage manager, who’d come over to see what all the noise was about. “They want to know where Sophie is,” I told him.  He just looked at me.

“Well,” I said, turning to the kids. “That’s a good question.”

Pause.

“She’s just not here!” I said finally, with a big smile. “She couldn’t make it. But she’ll be here tomorrow!”

As it does with 7-year-olds, the subject changed quickly. But I kept thinking about it. And the more I thought about it, the happier I was. These little girls loved Sophie! They wanted her, missed her. They didn’t see her differences, or if they did, they didn’t mind them. I hadn’t seen any of them interact with her much during rehearsals; I worried the whole time that she was just in their way — sitting too close, asking too many questions, hard to understand.

Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Better to leave everyone wanting a little more, I figure, than to overstay our welcome. The backstage manager smiled at me. “She’ll be in all four shows next year,” he promised.

Maybe she will. She’ll certainly audition, as long as she wants to, and after this weekend I can’t imagine she won’t. Sophie had a blast. And she did so well! She waved a couple times when she wasn’t supposed to, and fidgeted with her costume a bit, but other than that she knew all her steps and executed them well.

For me, she stole the show — from everyone but my sweet Annabelle. What can I say? It was a stage mom’s dream weekend.

My only real regret is that they videotape the show once a weekend — on Saturday night. So all we’ve got are backstage pictures, and some really great memories.

Snow Queen was over.

This was her third year appearing on a big stage in downtown Phoenix, in the city’s alternative to the Nutcracker. Her second (and almost certainly last) year as a rosebud, which she and I agree is the best role. She was cranky about rehearsals, nervous about going on stage, bored waiting for  curtain calls.

And beyond ecstatic about the whole thing.

Saturday night — still only halfway through the four shows, happily in the midst of the whole thing — we left the theater late. She pulled the big stage door open ahead of me, and said something so quietly I didn’t quite catch it.

“I feel….”

“Cranky? Grumpy?” I asked, sighing. “Hungry?” All would have been perfectly acceptable.

No, she answered.

“I feel proud.”

I’m not really kidding. This year, Saturday morning class has been joined by Wednesday afternoon class (this time with my mom, who runs the studio — how could I resist?) and if she gets a part in the Snow Queen (a Nutcracker alternative run, again, out of my mom’s studio) it’ll be Sunday afternoon rehearsals, too, all fall.

The temple we’d join is quite relaxed, but requires third graders attend school on Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. Too much.

That’s okay.

As I write this, Dirty Dancing is on TV in the background. Patrick Swayze (RIP) never really did it for me, but boy, did I (do I) love him in that movie. And Jennifer Grey, even if she did eventually cave and get the nose job.

I’m thinking of playing hooky from work Friday morning, after Sophie’s IEP meeting (it’s finally been scheduled) to see Fame, though I’m quite concerned the remake will ruin a truly perfect original.

For me, the dance parties are pretty much limited to my kitchen, unless there’s a great deal of alcohol involved. That’s okay. In my imagination, I make it into the Fame school. Johnny and I do the mambo — perfectly.

That’s not to say either of my girls are destined for the stage. That’s okay, too, because it’s the pure joy that dance brings to both of them — that’ I’ve always seen it bring to my mom — that brings me to my knees.