Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The Teeny Tiny Drum Kit

"I'm really glad we bought the kids those robes. Now they can live our dreams and flare for showmanship."

Afternoon Readers,

Today's post is being typed as quietly as possible, for nap time is being held together by a single prayer and the ember of a hope the baby stops punching sleep in the face and surrenders to the fact he's five months old and needs to pass out. Lay down your chubby fists of furry, my friend.

Otherwise, the woman who jumps off the bridge on the news tonight will be yours truly. No exchanges. No Returns.

Yes, I cling to nap time because it's a brief reprieve from the commotion brought about by three children under three and their drum kit.

What? You're looking at me like I've never told you about it.

Then let me tell you about it, and the conversations which brought such a thing to pass...

Before Christmas -

"I think the kids need a drum set this year."

"They're two."

"I think they're old enough. Didn't you always want to play the drums, but never got the chance?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Now they can have their dreams." Husband patted me on the shoulder. "And you can live vicariously."

My Ask Me About Obliterated Goals t-shirt started to itch, and I nodded with more conviction. "Vicariously. I like that."

Christmas Eve -

"They'll probably end up being really good."

"They'll be great."

"We should get them a manager."

"We should."

"What if they're so gifted, we have to downplay it to the neighbors, like, "Oh, that drum solo coming from the basement? No, Bob, that's just the kids. You know how young people are, always precisely mimicking Def Leppard whenever they  get the chance."

"We should make shirts for their band."

"We should."

Satisfied, I turned to leave. "But first, I'm gonna go eat all the chocolate Santas while you figure out how set this thing up."

Every day since Christmas -

"How's everything at home?"

"It's in pieces again."

"The house?"

"That, and the drum kit."

"Did you save all the parts?"

"Barely. But don't ask me how the foot pedal got lodged in the ceiling and why the high hat's in the dishwasher."

"What about the drum sticks?"

"If you're asking whether the dog's recovering from the impaling incident, I think he'll pull through."

After a couple week's worth of hiatus, yesterday found us putting the set back together and hoping the twins had matured. So far, so good. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to wait out nap time and get in line for my turn. Some of us live vicariously. And others ignore the fact they're almost twenty-nine, and play teeny tiny drum kits anyway.

Until Next Time, Readers!