Cora Jo arrived at dress rehearsal in full makeup and fresh tights, with her sweet curls tightened back slick against her head under a tiara. We sat in the audience together, checking off each act as it crossed the stage. She wrung her hands, bit her lips, and admired all the other dance costumes. The rehearsal was in a beautiful concert hall that had been rented out for the show. Great symphonies, singers, and actors had performed on the same boards. It was a little awe-inspiring for us both.

It was nearly time for her group, and the stage manager came and lined up all the ice princesses. The aisles flooded with a sea of baby blue tulle, bubbling ballerinas, fitted with sparkling tiaras. Can all these girls be in this dance? I don’t remember her class being this big, I thought to myself, repositioning myself closer to the stage to record it.

I held my breath as the music began and I remembered to click record. The music rolled across the stage, that song I had heard week after week, rehearsal after rehearsal. Something was wrong though. There were too many girls. The stage was so much bigger than the ballet room on Shore Drive. Two classes had combined to create this routine. Several girls froze, while others fought tears through their arabesques. Cora Jo nearly fell down twice. It was a disaster.

The music stopped and the rehearsal ground to a halt for the first time all night. Several instructors flooded the stage while parents flocked together horrified. I sat alone, watching Cora Jo. Was she embarrassed? Heart-broken? Would I have to fight to get her back on the stage for the performance Saturday night?

They ran the dance again, although I did not notice any marked improvement. Parents were outraged. Too many girls, too many transitions, too much money to stand in the back…on and on. I still sat quietly and waited for my ice princess to come down. I texted Matt, You’ve heard of Swan Lake? Um, this was Duck Puddle.

I tried to breathe. It was a complete failure. Epic. I wondered if the instructor would let the number stay in the show. More importantly, I wondered about Cora Jo. Watching my children fail is far more painful than experiencing my own failures. She came off the stage. I smiled weakly. She said, “Well, that could have gone better.” I nodded. “Good thing we have one more rehearsal, Momma.”

That was her only comment. I kept my mouth shut, and we went to rehearsal early the next night.

Saturday night, show night, I sat in the audience barely breathing. My prayers were shallow and desperate- please Lord, let it be ok. Please don’t let her fall down, I begged. The music began and the blue tulle flooded the stage. I gripped the armrests. Those beautiful little ducks twirled, they leaped, and they danced. It was breathtaking. The Duck Puddle had somehow transformed into Swan Lake. The audience “oohed and ahhed” and I cried in the dark, grinning like a fool. It was my job, after all, and it was what I had come for against all odds. Twenty little ballerinas held failure in one hand and faith in the other. I guess faith shines brightest in the midst of failure. Beautiful, glorious, duck puddle failure.