“Mommy, what if something goes wrong?” she asked last night as I tucked her into bed.

“Nothing will go wrong, sweetie,” I told her. “You’ll be great.”

“What if I’m late?” she asked. “Will they wait for me?”

“We won’t be late. We’ll get you there on time. I promise.”

“What if Riley forgets her scissor step?”

“Everything will be fine, honey,” I tried to reassure her. “Just relax, close your eyes and sleep.”

“But Mommy, I just can’t.”

She did, though, and everything was just fine. Great, even. It was my girl’s first dance recital, and she got up on that stage and nailed it. She looked so determined and focused marching around to “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and at the end she bowed and soaked up the applause. And then she bowed again. And again. Her little dance class pals left the stage. She stayed. She bowed once more — deeply, dramatically — and left the stage.

I’m not sure if it was from laughter or relief or pride or just crazy, all-out love for that kid, but I was definitely crying.

I am a sap, apparently, and Poppy is most certainly a little ham.