One day last week, Scarlett sidled up next to me and said, “Otto is being a real D – N – E – R.”

“What does that spell?” I asked her.

“Jerk,” she whispered.

Otto, who was calmly lying on his dog bed in the corner of the living room, seemed unfazed by this random attack on his character. I just laughed to myself. She’s working so hard on her spelling, and in pure Scarlett fashion, concentrates more on certain types of words than others. You can see further evidence of this at her Twitter account.

We laugh a lot in our house, mostly at the things that Scarlett says, although in our finer moments, Rob and I can even laugh at our situation. After all, what else can you do?

Oh wait, I know! I totally know this one.

You can cry.

I cry. I’m just sharing that in case anyone thinks that I am strong and stoic and unemotional and brave all the time. Far from it. And I don’t have the pseudo-bulbar symptoms of ALS that can cause you to cry (or to laugh) for no reason. I guess you could say I’m just in touch with my emotions, and sometimes more in touch with them than I would like to be.

I took Scarlett to see the Nutcracker yesterday at San Francisco’s War Memorial Opera House. On the way there, Rob and I were forced to listen to her My Little Pony soundtrack as we navigated terrible traffic, since no one in this city knows how to drive when it rains. There was one song about friends helping friends in need. And I got teary. And it was a My Little Pony song. No, I am not proud that I sort-of cried at a song that included the lyrics “Pinkie Pie is in trouble.”

In my defense, I was feeling a little anxious about the upcoming performance. We were meeting a group of moms and girls from Scarlett’s kindergarten class, and the whole thing had been planned months in advance. Finally the day had arrived, and I wasn’t sure if I was prepared to tackle this outing with a 5-year-old and no other assistance. I was nervous. All sorts of possible logistical nightmares were tumbling around in my head, when all I wanted was to be a normal mom taking her daughter to the ballet, and worrying solely about whether she would sit still for two hours or start rolling in the aisles in her fancy dress and cowboy boots.

As soon as we reached our seats, Scarlett dashed five rows ahead to where her friends were sitting, leaving me in the last row of wheelchair accessible seating. It wasn’t that big of a deal. If I were her, I would rather sit with the other Kindergartners, too. But I suddenly felt very alone in the theater, realizing that we wouldn’t be able to experience the show together. One of the other moms made her way up to my row and sat down next to me. “It’s cuter for the girls to sit together anyway,” she said, “so I’m going to sit with you.” A good new friend.

The show was fine. Beautiful even, in parts, although I would have preferred to lean over and check in with Scarlett about what she was thinking. At the intermission, we went out into the lobby and got hot chocolate. “Am I going to see the Nutcracker soon?” Scarlett asked.

“He’s been onstage almost the entire show,” I informed her. She probably needed me for comprehension as much as I needed her for company.

But she spent the second half with her friends, until 10 minutes before the show ended, when I felt something shaking my wheelchair. I turned around and there was my child, who climbed into my lap for the remainder, and told me that she wanted to be a ballerina. She did not attempt to spell it. I did not cry.

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