Every Christmastime, like clockwork, the world transforms into a wonderland of twinkling lights and crisp, frosted air. The familiar warmth of tradition settles in the moment my daughter and I take our seats in the velvet-draped theater, waiting for the curtain to rise on The Nutcracker.

It’s more than just a custom; it’s a ritual. One we’ve shared year after year, watching the story unfold with the same wide-eyed wonder as the first time. (Well… maybe not exactly like the first time.) In the familiar strains of Tchaikovsky’s music, played by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and the timeless magic of the Sugar Plum Fairy, we find not just the joy of the season, but the joy of each other.

This is our story. Of dance. Of dreams. And of the unbreakable bond between mother and daughter.

After having two boys and being immersed in odorous, sweat-stained sporting equipment and endless piles of mud-stiffened laundry, it was with great excitement that we welcomed a beautiful little girl. She was part of a set. Unfortunately, her twin left us early, almost taking her sister with her.

She arrived early. A four-pound preemie. Tiny, fragile, and terrifying. I was scared to bring her home to her two rough-and-tumble brothers, convinced they would either tear her apart or break her in half. Instead, they became gentle, loving, and fiercely overprotective from day one.

From the moment she took her first breath, our family made an unspoken pact to protect this miracle baby. I vowed I would make her feel like a special little lady so she would know the right way to be treated when she grew up. I would make time for her. I would answer every question. I would seize every opportunity to make her feel like the most important girl in the world.

My girl was born six days before Christmas. She came so quickly we barely had time to think about the holiday. Despite her size, we were able to take her home fairly quickly, a testament to her strong will and determination from the start.

Her birth announcement was a photo of her tucked inside a tiny stocking on our mantel, with both brothers gently cradling her before a roaring fire. From that moment on, I promised her something important: her birthday would never be swallowed by Christmas. It would always be its own special day.

For her first birthday, I bought a small LED Christmas tree and decorated it with birthday ornaments: little bells, photo frames, and reminders of us. When I plugged it in, the lights danced in her eyes. She twirled and pirouetted around it, pretending to be a ballerina.

And that’s when I had an idea.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit: I’ve never been part of the brain trust that runs the Mensa league. But this idea insisted on being tried. Bringing a one-year-old to a ballet sounds like voluntarily scheduling a root canal without Novocain, but I pressed on anyway.

Taking her into the city for Joffrey Ballet’s Nutcracker felt like asking God for another Christmas miracle, so I compromised. I scoured the internet for smaller productions and found one at the College of DuPage, performed by an amateur ballet troupe visiting from Russia. There was a live orchestra and a pre-show reception with canapés. Clearly, fate had weighed in.

I purchased a burgundy velvet-and-lace Cinderella dress, black patent-leather shoes, a tiny fur coat with a matching handbag and hat, and, just like that, we were ready for an evening at the ballet.

Luckily, she loved dressing up from the start. Wrestling with tights and buckle shoes was never a battle. Strapped into her car seat, clutching her purse and singing to herself, we headed off with no idea where this night would take us.

I was giddy. I imagined us doing this for years, maybe even decades.

The theater was magnificent. Christmas decorations shimmered under warm lights. The reception glowed with candlelight and tinsel. We snacked on stuffed mushrooms and fruit skewers, dipped in red juice. Not a drop spilled. She even used her napkin.

After years of feeding two jungle-raised boys, I braced for chaos, but none came. I may have teared up.

The lobby lights flashed for the fifteen-minute warning, so we made one last bathroom trip and found our seats: front row, center of the balcony. She was afraid to move, convinced she’d fall over the railing. I joked that the only way she’d go over was if she cried or made noise during the show.

I was joking.
Mostly.

The orchestra struck its first note. Clara stepped onto the stage. My baby girl was hypnotized: eyes wide, absorbing every twirling tutu and pointed toe. I don’t think she blinked for ten minutes.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her tiny purse slide off her lap. As I bent to retrieve it, I realized she was sliding too.

Sound asleep.
Twenty minutes in. Gone.

Nothing woke her: not kisses, not tickles, not gentle shakes. As I wrapped her in her jacket to leave, she half-opened her eyes, shook her head, and refused to go. So I fashioned a pillow from our coats and cradled her head in my lap through the rest of the first act.

At intermission, I tried to move. She erupted with a blood-curdling, “I NO GO!”

The audience turned. I froze. This perfect little princess had summoned the devil, and now we were three.

She fell back asleep. I did not move again. I sat through the second act with numb legs, tingling feet, cramped calves, and a back on the brink of mutiny, sweating like I’d crawled up Mount Kilimanjaro only to roll into a fire pit at the bottom.

When the theater emptied, I braced myself. I lifted her head. Her eyes flew open: bloodshot, sleep-drunk, and then… a smile.

“Bootifool, Mommy.”

And just like that, a tradition was born: Princess Michaela napping through The Nutcracker.

The following year, the same routine. Different theater. Lights out, naptime. Outside, snow fell like a movie scene. The moment snow touched her face, she sprang awake, demanding a snack.

We found a Starbucks and shared a marshmallow dream bar and a cup of hot cocoa.

“I want it to be like this every year,” she said. “Can you do that for me, Mommy?”

I said yes, knowing I’d either disappoint her someday or spend my life upping the stakes.

At three, it was time. I picked her up from preschool and took her on the train into the city. Once seated, I presented a gold-wrapped box with a ribboned bow. Inside was a Nutcracker ornament.

I told her every year we’d add one to her tree.

“I’ll need a bigger tree,” she said. “I want to do this till I’m a hundred.”
Decision made. Official. Notarized.

Eventually, the tree did get bigger. The ornaments multiplied. One year, we painted our own and vowed never to do it again. I’d rather have my appendix removed with plastic picnic utensils than paint anything ever again.

Here we are, twenty-two years later. She no longer falls asleep during the ballet. This year’s tickets sit in my inbox, a break from finals during her first year of law school.

She owns every Kurt Adler Nutcracker ornament ever made. I was stumped.

Then, one innocent Sunday afternoon, during a Chicago Bears bye week, we wandered into a craft store for Halloween decorations. I refused to acknowledge the Christmas aisle. It was too soon. My Mother Nature costume was still hanging in the laundry room.

I heard a squeal.

There she stood, before a four-foot wooden Nutcracker, eyes wide, begging. I felt heat rise, words forming I knew I shouldn’t say. I said “no.” Loudly. Possibly with colorful adjectives.

The Nutcracker smiled at me. Smug. Unpainted. Waiting.

“Wouldn’t it be cute to paint our own three-foot Nutcrackers?” she asked sweetly. “Yours at home. Mine at my condo?”

If I were smarter, I would’ve beaten myself unconscious with that statue right there in the aisle. Instead, my mouth betrayed me.

“Oh, I could paint two,” I said. “One on each side of the fireplace.”

So I sat at the kitchen table, sharp objects locked away, three half-painted, tear-stained Nutcrackers mocking me from the craft table as I considered gasoline options.

Do I burn them in the fireplace?
Do I burn the house down with the nutcrackers in it?
Do I fake a tragic accident?

I finished my two Nutcrackers, sealed and varnished, and officially removed them from the “art project” category, reassigned to outdoor duty. They now stand on the front porch, flanking the door like mildly unhinged sentries, welcoming visitors with lopsided smirks and oval cheeks that no amount of sanding could make symmetrical. They wave no swords. They guard no kingdom. They simply exist, proof that enthusiasm should sometimes be followed by supervision.

They were not, under any circumstances, allowed near my fireplace. I could not bear to sit between them all winter, quietly judged by crooked mustaches, uneven epaulettes, and brushstrokes that scream hubris. Some mistakes deserve fresh air and limited eye contact.

Michaela’s Nutcracker, however, remains unfinished. Half-painted, eternally optimistic, waiting patiently in my basement like a paused dream. She insists she’ll finish it someday. I believe her because some traditions don’t need to be completed to be perfect.

And just like that first Nutcracker performance all those years ago, it turns out the magic was never in getting it right. It was in showing up, staying put, and letting the mess become part of the story.

The Nutcrackers may not be masterpieces, but the tradition?
That one’s still standing, and this year she got a hoodie with nutcrackers dressed in leopard print livery.