I am a ballet mom. It is Nutcracker Week.

Therefore, there's a whole lotta dancin' going on around here, and not only by the gang wearing tights.

Any parent whose kid is in ballet knows the drill. (They also know the term "drill" applies very neatly in this circumstance.) Shuttle them to and from rehearsals, on a nearly nightly basis. Sell tickets. Sew sequins to clouds of white netting.

Of course, the dance they do onstage is what makes the dance we do backstage all worthwhile.

This is the ninth year that our daughter has appeared in a Christmas ballet, an annual event for us ever since she enrolled in the School of Honolulu Dance Theatre. The first several years it was "Scrooge!" a rendering of Ebenezer and Co. and, for those overdosing on sugarplums and bonbons, a respite from the conventional "Nutcracker" fare.

But for the past five years HDT has staged its own version of the holiday classic inspired by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky's music. "The Hawaiian Nutcracker Ballet" is set in the Hawaiian monarchy era — still a fantasy, filled with whimsical imagery, but using icons drawn from our experience.

Dancing 'ukulele, for example. Menehune. Geckos. Peacocks. Rainbows. Snowflakes on Mauna Kea.

All of it a lovely spectacle, of course, but behind the scenes swirls a kind of giddy insanity.

Really, when Tchaikovsky conceived this, could he have imagined some poor parent cutting out curvy 'ukulele forms out of foam so little waifs could cavort about in them?

By "some poor parent," I mean me, of course. Never thought I'd be mother hen to a flock of 'ukulele costumes, contraptions that hang together with glue and anxious hopes that repairs will keep them intact for one more year.

Peter, you owe a lot of parents, big time, for the popularity of this particular composition of yours.

We shell out more than we should for pointe shoes. We check and recheck the spelling of names in the program, and hound dancers to turn in their head shots.

We're the ones who, garbed in black, with flashlights, wait in the wings to help dancers on with their tiaras or off with their ballet slippers, pinning on bits of costume until the slaves in the sewing room can make a permanent fix.

We know what those gossamer beauties really look like after they pirouette offstage, panting and perspiring. Some of us have had to peel fairly rank items of apparel off said beauties.

Peter, did you really mean for this to happen?

Of course, what offsets the turmoil with the safety pins and sweat is the sight of our children who grow up in the ballet, loving what they do.

It's hearing your daughter thrill at the chance at a new role (never thought that a dancing gecko could be such a coveted part), or to put on the raiment of a fluttering snowflake.

After tonight, when we hear the applause, we may be able to put all the stress behind us.

But meanwhile, we hope you will forgive us for going a little nutcrackers. Blame Peter.

Reach Vicki Viotti at vviotti@honoluluadvertiser.com.