When Elder Muse was just under a year, I bought him a cute little sweater that said “Future Rock Star”.
I wonder if perhaps I didn’t think that one through.
He takes advantage of any and all opportunity to practice drumming. Coloring? Crayon drumsticks. Banana for breakfast? Break it in half: banana drumsticks. Mr. Potato Head pieces? Mr. Potato drumsticks. He asks for “meek-is” (music) and then gets this funny little intense look on his face as he drums away to anything from Raffi to Rachmaninoff.
We’ve had to establish household drumming rules. No drumming on breakable things. Not even softly. Do not drum on your plate with your spoon and fork. Soft things are fair game for drumming on. Mama’s leg does not count as a soft thing. DO NOT DRUM ON YOUR BROTHER’S HEAD STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.
I tell him it’s time to go upstairs for nap, and he bursts into tears. Sticks?! He wails. Yes, you may bring your drumsticks with you, if you ask nicely. Sticks, please? He hands them to me to carry for him. Thank you! Then he hustles on up the stairs.
He gives one last rousing concert, then grasps the drumsticks as we read a book.
He is tucked in bed for his nap; the sticks are waiting on the table by the window.
They’ll be the first thing he asks for when he wakes.