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The music blared from loudspeakers, classical and familiar. Since we’d arrived at the Hering Auditorium a half-hour early, we were up front and center, close enough to see the painted-on smiles and fake snow flicked up by the dancers’ feet.

The children squirmed, a little tired now that we’d been in our seats for so long. As the curtain opened, I watched Owen closely for signs of restlessness. This was our second year of attending the North Star Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker,” and I still wasn’t sure if the pre-schooler would last.

I didn’t even like the production as a child. When it came on the television, cleverly disguised as a holiday special, my heart sank. I lost interest as soon as the guests went away and the family went to bed. The dancing didn’t do much for me either. I preferred football or some other team sport. So I was surprised when my son became a fan.

After Thanksgiving last year, Owen discovered an illustrated version of the story at the library. He couldn’t stop talking about the little wooden soldier. His sword. His cape. His funny mouth. His questions came at us like mosquitoes at a herd of caribou. Why was the Nutcracker ugly? Why did he fight the Mouse King? Why did he come alive?

I didn’t know the answers, so we brought the original book along with us on a trip to Birch Lake outside Delta Junction. By the light of a dinky light bulb tucked away in a tiny cabin on a frozen lake, with the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, Owen and I devoured “The Nutcracker and the King of Mice.” Written by E.T.A. Hoffman in 1816, the tale is full of layers, rich characters and delicious connections. It’s as dark as Hans Christian Anderson and as delightful as Disney.

We learned about that fateful Christmas Eve when the Nutcracker appeared. As the Stahlbaum children waited for the Christ Child to bring them gifts, they peeked through the keyhole at the tree laden with candles, pink and yellow bonbons and even little toy people made of candy. The next day they learned that the Nutcracker himself was once a real boy, put under a spell by Dame Mouserink, the Mouse King’s mother.

And spooky Godpapa Drosselmeyer was responsible for all of it. He was the one who invented the mouse traps that would enrage the Dame, and then led his own nephew in the path of a spell that turned him into the ugly creature. When the Nutcracker brought about the Queen of Mice’s death, her son with the seven-heads vowed to avenge it. Ever since, the Prince had been waiting for a chance to find someone to love him despite his looks, so he could be transformed back into a human.

Soon Owen was asking for only one thing of Santa. A Nutcracker. A real one that actually cracked nuts. Lucky for me, nutcrackers were the Christmas decoration of choice that shopping season. At the grocery story, he crouched down in front of an army of nutcrackers marked “For Display Only.” He inspected the ranks, dressed as actual Army soldiers, Santa Claus, German kings and bagpipers, slowly pulling up on the cape that moved the mouth. I explained that these didn’t really crack nuts, they were only for show.

Meanwhile, my evenings were spent scouring the internet for a sign of an old-fashioned version. I found plenty of Hillary Nutcrackers — which my husband found hilarious, but creeped me out — and a gorgeous version make by company called Steinbach. I fretted about the expense to a friend. “Am I really going to indulge my four-year-old to the tune of $89.99?”

Finally my husband came home from work one day with a cheap decorative version bought at a local department store. I fretted about it’s lack of, um, teeth.

When we attended the Nutcracker last year, cramming into the first empty seats we could find in the back, Owen sat on my lap transfixed. He laughed at the little mice scurrying around the stage and was happy as long as the Nutcracker Prince was in sight. There was a silent auction going on in the lobby as a fundraiser and a couple of Nutcracker prototypes were on the block. My husband sneaked over to make a bid.

So on Christmas morning, Owen found not just one, but two Nutcrackers under the tree. We keep one on the kitchen counter, for cracking nuts. The other one stands guard at his bedroom door, coming alive whenever there are children around to play with it.

And now when Owen and I see the Nutcracker together, we’re both spellbound. We root for the Nutcracker Prince to kill the Mouse King and sigh with pleasure as Clara travels with him to the Marzipan Palace, where they are entertained by a procession of dancers, lost in a story that’s survived for almost two hundred years, as timeless as boys and swords, kids and Christmas.

Theresa Bakker lives with her family in downtown Fairbanks, where she finds plenty of things to write about. Contact her at theresabakker@yahoo.com.