My 4-year-old daughter is accident-prone and absentminded, which, in youthful incarnations, are adorable qualities.

I watched Nora enter her pre-K classroom recently, face-plant, then quietly get up and make her way over to the breakfast table to sit with her friends. I recognized myself in the casual gracelessness of the act and felt a strange motherly pride watching her quick recovery; while many people say they're clumsy, I actually am.

Considering this side of her physical nature, I figured ballet lessons would be both good for her coordination and, also, at least mildly amusing. Having completed the spring season, I'm not sure about the first assumption, and am absolutely certain of the second.

I regularly observed her 45-minute classes with delight from behind glass-paned French doors, splitting my attention between my wayward 2-year-old son - who often accompanied me - and Nora, one of the smaller girls in class, her hair bun always askew; often smiling, often not exactly following instructions.

It wasn't mischief that motivated her. Nora's a stickler for the rules. Several eye tests earlier this year earned us a trip to the optometrist, and I've told friends that the minuscule pink glasses she wears fit my daughter's personality well. Now she's got the appropriate accessory to accentuate her judging glances. She's a bit of a tattletale and would rather inform me exactly how many times her brother has hit her ("Mommy! Gabe hit me THIRTEEN times!") than get away from the hitting in the first place.

Her penchant for obedience meant that beyond liking ballet because of its princess-related qualities, she appreciates the stringent regulations. Girls must wear leotards of a certain shade of pink. They must tuck in the strings on their slippers. She'd squirm while I did her hair, then take a step back and stand still as a statue, a slightly smug look on her face, indicating the extent and importance of her conformity.

Once inside the studio, however, under the guidance of a calm and patient teacher, she'd lose focus a bit, participating happily during the free-dancing-with-scarves portion of that day's class, but often staring at the ceiling during practice for the forthcoming recital, the culmination of a season's worth of instruction. I'd sometimes ask her afterward if she understood her role in the whole affair, if she understood that paying attention was important? She'd nod, say, "Yes, I do," and then we'd head home and make dinner.

So when the recital rolled around, I didn't tell the group of seven extended-family members attending that they'd be impressed with Nora's skills. Instead, I told them that they were "in for a treat."

Having volunteered to chaperone the young students backstage during the show, I instructed my husband to rally Nora's fans, arrive early to get good seats, and pack a bag of candy to be given to my son at the slightest hint of tantrum. I wasn't taking any chances.

Eventually, the girls were filing onto the stage, where they were supposed to stop at designated points and stand to begin their routine.

From there, the performance was a frenetic, hilarious whirl. Nora and the girl next in line - her accomplice, it seemed - stopped not at their designated spots, but right next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Neither of them marched downstage, hands on hips, when cued, despite their teacher waving her arms and shout-whispering their names.

Nora jeté'd a beat after everyone else. She swayed her hips from side to side at one point, which I do not believe was part of the program. She looked at the ceiling.

Suppressing my laughter took almost all of my energy. But my psyche was waging another battle: trying to stand still, instead of racing onstage and joining my daughter in the correct moves; wanting to call her name, or simply go to her.

Nora didn't need me to do any of those things. She didn't care how she'd done. None of the children did. Marching offstage and resuming the games they'd been playing before being interrupted by the demands of show business, they reminded me of the fleetingness of young childhood. In several years, botched performances, harshly graded school papers, or misguided efforts directed at a myriad of chosen interests could end in tears, rather than indifference.

But Nora is only 4, and for her - for now - it's just another shining accomplishment, effervescent while it lasts.

At this age, a "big day" is big for parents. We watch as our children stumble and smile through the newness, feeling something like a gravitational pull toward where they stand - just momentarily - out of reach.

This essay originally appeared in The Philadelphia Inquirer.