The Nutcracker, Hot Wheels, and the Giant Snowball

Several Christmases ago, when Will was about seven and Clay was about three, Francie announced that, “Everyone should see a live performance of The Nutcracker at least once.”  I had my doubts, but I am no Scrooge, so I put on my best ugly Christmas sweater and said, “Let’s go!”

Francie’s response was, “You’re not going to wear that are you?”  Now I’ve been married long enough to know that even though this sounds like a question, it’s not a question.  So I went back, put on a shirt and tie, and we were off to experience a Christmas tradition.  We were also about to prove the old adage that goes something like, “You can dress him up, but you can’t take him out in public.”

We stopped by to pick up Will’s buddy Andrew because Will and Andrew went everywhere together and I guess we needed to broaden his cultural horizons too.  Soon we found our seats near the orchestra pit and the show was about to begin,

It was a slow start.  Will and Andrew had already pulled out the Hot Wheels cars and were busy racing them all over the seat backs of the row in front of us.  Of course, both of them were making that “motor noise” that all little boys are just born knowing how to make.  This brought disapproving looks from some of the ballet patrons in our immediate area.  Apparently motor noises are frowned upon at the ballet.  Francie was busy trying to keep the boys quite, and I was struggling to stay awake.  Then came the famous Snow Scene.

The dancers were out on the stage, and several guys were up in the rafters shaking boxes of fake snow. However, there must have been a warm front over the middle of the stage because it was not snowing there.  There was some sort of problem upstairs; nothing was coming out of one guy’s fake snow box.  He kept reaching inside trying to release the blockage, but no luck.  Until finally, it all came out at once.  A giant ball of fake snow the size of a beach ball was heading straight for the Sugar Plum Fairy.  At the last minute, she executed a prefect pirouette and the giant snowball crashed harmlessly on the stage behind her.

This amused me. I started giggling, just a little snort at first, which brought a disapproving look from the lady in front of me.  Apparently giggling is frowned upon at the ballet.  I was now fighting a losing battle.  I was that kid in church--the one who is trying to suppress a laugh—and can’t.  And just like that kid, you know somebody's about to get in trouble.  I almost made it, I was so close, except just at that moment I heard Clayton’s little three-year-old voice say, “Wow!  Do it again!”

Apparently belly laughs are frowned upon at the ballet.  Most of the people our section, (and a few others,) were looking at me like I forgot to take a bath.  Clayton and I were the only ones laughing, and we were really enjoying ourselves.  Will and Andrew stopped making motor noises long enough to ask what was so funny, and Francie was trying to disappear into her seat.  Later she referred to me having "the mentality of a three-year old,” but I prefer to think we were just the only ones who actually saw the whole thing.

At this point I'm thinking, "Hey, full contact ballet!  This might not be so bad after all."  In addition to the fake snow bombs falling from the rafters, we could have a little audience participation and pass out fake snowballs that we could chunk at each other.  Sort of a cross between The Nutcracker and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

But unfortunately, this turned out to be the high point in the evening, there were no more "meteorological malfunctions" and there was no audience participation.  My earlier enthusiasm began to wane, and my memory of the rest of the performance is a little fuzzy.  I do remember Francie landing several strategically placed elbows into my rib cage in a losing effort to keep me awake, but after that it's safe to say that I settled down for a long winter's nap while visions of beach-ball-sized sugar plums danced in my head.

When I finally awoke (in what seemed like about 12 hours later), the lights were on and people were filing past us. Many with that same look on their faces.  Apparently napping is also frowned upon at the ballet.  Clayton was curled up in my lap asleep, Will and Andrew were still making motor noises, and Francie was hiding under her seat.

We gathered everything up and headed to the Lobby, where I reached for my car keys and was headed out the door when Francie said. "Where do you think you are going?" (This also sounds like a question, but there is no correct answer).

"Home?"  I said hopefully.

"It's Intermission."

I must have had a dumb look on my face because she followed up with, "You know; halftime."  She likes to keep the conversation on a level that I can understand.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.  Now fully awake, I responded, "Do you really want to sit through another 12 hours of my snoring and the boy's motor noises competing with the orchestra?"  Say what you want about me, but I had a really good point.

She replied with a long drawn out, "Nooo."  She wanted to be mad at me, but the corners of her mouth were already turning up.

"Me neither!  Come on, let's go get ice cream!"  It may be Christmas, but in Austin, Texas it was still 72 degrees outside.

I am married to a patient woman, a saint really, so when she broke out into a full smile,  I knew that I would be forgiven eventually.  Although I do think this was one of the Christmases that I got coal in my stocking.



MERRY CHRISTMAS!  May your Christmas be filled with long naps and lots of belly laughs, no matter who disapproves.