There was a time when the best part of going to the opera was getting a candy bar during intermission. The same was true for the symphony and the ballet, although I remember finding myself mesmerized by The Firebird with her bright crimson headdress and tutu.

I was three years old when my parents started taking my brother and me to live, cultural performances. They felt that the true way to appreciate art was to experience it first-hand. Maybe that’s why I started taking ballet lessons soon after seeing The Firebird. Like any three-year-old, I would jump around in the studio like a frog as my teacher explained pliés and my brother laughed from the doorway.

The classics were just a part of life. Growing up, our family sat front row center of every opera and symphony performed at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro, North Carolina. It didn’t matter that my brother and I would fall asleep sometime after inhaling our candy bars. My parents never even bothered waking us up to go home. They just carried us out to the car — “sacks of potatoes” that we were.

Because of all this, it’s probably no surprise that my husband and I take our boys to live cultural performances whenever we can. Yes, they have fallen asleep, and yes, they eye the concession stand the minute we walk into the lobby. But I know from experience that whether we’re awake or asleep, paying attention or not, the magic of live theatre stays with us.

Just recently, my husband and I took our boys to see the Atlanta Ballet’s Nutcracker at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. It was the first time the boys had ever been to the Fox, and the first time they had ever seen a ballet. I’ll admit the outing was entirely my idea.

When I was in fifth grade, I performed in The Nutcracker at the Carolina Theatre in Greensboro as one of Mother Ginger’s children in the Land of Sweets.

Mother Ginger was actually a very tall man who had harnesses strapped over his shoulders and around his back to hold up his “dress.” The dress had an enormous, cumbersome frame, but on the outside looked like candy. I was one of eight children who were to hide under the dress as Mother Ginger paraded onto and off of the stage.

Rehearsals were long, and expectations were high. When we finally joined the adult cast for dress rehearsals, there was complete focus on and off stage. The choreographer introduced us to Mother Ginger and explained how her “dress” worked. The front panel opened and we were to come out dancing. Then at the end, we were to return to the dress, so the panel could be lowered and we could all get off stage together.

They put us in our pairs and positioned us under the dress. Then the choreographer looked at me and said, “See those?” Mother Ginger was wearing giant, Herman Munster-like steel platform shoes to increase his height. “They’ll crush your feet if you get in the way while he’s walking. He can’t see you under there, so stay out of his way, okay?”

Then panel closed, and we were left in the dark.

Once my eyes adjusted, I could see just enough to scurry my little feet past his monstrous, stomping shoes. The performance was both terrifying and exhilarating — having to avoid getting my feet crushed, yes, but also getting to be a part of this magical world on stage.

Although I performed in other renditions of The Nutcracker at other venues, that first performance has stayed with me. Even now, whenever I hear Tchaikovsky’s enchanting score, that same feeling of wonder comes rushing back.

So even though the boys eyed the concession stand at The Fox and bolted for popcorn during intermission, I hope the mysterious ways of Uncle Drosselmeyer and the magnificent Nutcracker will stay with them, and they will love it enough to do it all again next year.