In retrospect, maybe bringing a spirited, outspoken 3-year-old to the ballet wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had.

No - the MOST brilliant idea I've ever had was selling pre-sliced bread. Yes, that was my idea; you don't have to thank me.

Taking my daughter to the ballet wasn't even close. You should know that my daughter Buttercup is a very girly girl, and I am not. Every morning, I ask the question, "What do you want to wear today?" "A PRETTY DRESS," is always the answer. She speaks in all capital letters. Heck, my girl lives in all caps.

This very afternoon, we were sitting on her bedroom floor playing with baby dolls. Buttercup was chattering away about how she was taking care of her baby, changing the baby's clothes, combing her hair and, I'm quoting here, "putting on her makeup." She didn't get that from me.

While I will wear makeup when faced with the possibility of interacting with other professional adults, most days I'm happy just to wash my face and put on some lip-gloss if I have to go to the store. Oh, how I will embarrass her in just a few short years.

And I'll be fine with that, because it will be just payback for our first visit to the ballet, where, in the ladies' room, she had the kind of screeching meltdown that made every woman present believe I was torturing my child.

We had planned a ladies-only trip to Saratoga Springs to see the New York City Ballet perform a "Russian Extravaganza." Our group was composed of sisters, mothers, daughters and good friends. And then there was Buttercup, who was beside herself with excitement over the whole affair.

We all wore pretty dresses and shoes, and Buttercup's Mama even wore makeup.

(It bears mentioning that, when we moved our family from northwest Florida onto 15 acres of New York countryside, we did not realize the extent to which we were upgrading our cultural resources. Ballet, opera, local breweries and vintners - this is a great place to raise a family.)

But back to the ballet.

Buttercup held it together through the two-hour drive to Saratoga Springs. She enjoyed lunch with all the ladies, and squirmed only a little in her car seat during the long wait for parking. She sat enthralled during the first two acts, then I made the fateful decision to take her to the ladies' room during the second intermission, and that was the end of our day at the ballet.

She and I sat in the car while the rest of our cadre watched a selection from "The Firebird." She committed to her tantrum. I mean, she really put her shoulder into it. Me? I cried, too.

We had all looked forward to this trip for months, and I had planned badly, not allowing for her to get proper rest and quiet time before the intense stimulation of the performance. The meltdown was inevitable, and I could have predicted and possibly prevented it.

I felt like a lousy mom. I felt lousy for leaving the rest of our group to worry about us instead of enjoying the last act. I felt lousy that this would be our first memory of the ballet.

And therein lies the magic of childhood. The tantrum and the missed act are my memories - not Buttercup's.

To her, that's just a little asterisk, a side note, an afterthought.

If you ask her about the ballet, she will tell you about the PRETTY DRESSES.

She will tell you about "the lady JULIA who is on the tower and ROMEO comes looking for her because he LOVES her."

She will tell you about the selection from Jerome Robbins' "The Cage," which features a bevy of fright-wigged arachnoid women who - true to the nature of some female arachnids - ritually slay their mates. Buttercup will tell you that, for Halloween, she wants to be a SPIDER LADY! Or maybe a VAMPIRE. Or a PIRATE. She may also tell you about how we had to sit in the car at the end.

But what she missed wasn't nearly as important to her as what she saw. Her disappointment paled next to her happiness. Her smiles were bigger than her tears. Another lesson for Mom.

And just for that, I promise to put on a little mascara when her friends come over.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance writer who will turn this car around right now and go back home. She can be reached at VillageWordsmith@hughes.net.