My brooms are not safe

I try to expose Mark to as many cultural events as I possibly can. "Try" because what interests me (live music, wine tasting) doesn't always interest him (monster truck rallies, sporting events), and vice versa. Throw in his short little attention span, and you'll see why sometimes we just spend the weekend at home.

This week's festivities included a trip to see "Stomp." I thought Mark might dig it because a) it's loud, b) there's no talking in it, and c) he's a drummer, so I thought he might like the whole percussion aspect. I was right on a and b, anyway.

Mark was really into it at first, sitting on the edge of his seat. Then a very tall lady with a very squirmy kid sat in front of him, and he couldn't see. Luckily, our row was half-empty, so he moved a couple seats down from Vic.

About halfway through, the Stompers went crazy. They literally had a wall of metal items, and were swinging back and forth pounding on them. It was LOUD. So loud, you could actually feel the rhythm, not just hear it.

I peeked over at Mark to gauge his reaction. "He's sleeping," Vic told me.

Well...I didn't pay $40 for my kid to nap, so I immediately instructed Vic to poke him. (The theatre was dark, I'll give him that, but it was like sleeping next to a busy train station.) He sat up a bit, but soon slumped down again.

Pretty soon, the Stompers were tossing and beating paint cans, big and small, and pounding giant inflatable inner tubes. I was about to tell Vic to poke Mark again, but he was actually awake and watching with interest.

At the end of the show, I asked if he'd liked it.

"It was okay," he shrugged, not overly impressed. I vowed to spend the money on a babysitter instead of a ticket next time.

But what a difference a day makes. It's been two days now, and Mr. I-hate-Stomp hasn't stopped playing everything in sight. This morning I even saw him voluntarily pull out a broom to sweep. Before I could recover from the shock, he was sweeping, then pounding, then sweeping again rhythmically. He was re-enacting the Stompers and their brooms.

He also experimented with his mints tin, and pounding on the side of his bed. He spent some time this morning clapping, whistling and snapping, and then pounding the floor with some drum sticks.

I'd usually yell at him to stop making such a racket, but this time I did not. I was actually glad to hear all the pounding and shaking; it meant he was awake for more than I gave him credit for. And it meant that even though he pretended to sleep, he'd actually enjoyed the show after all. Which is what I really wanted.

(But I'm still leaving him home with the babysitter next time!)

Baby beat box in the howwwwse

I knew it would happen eventually, and in a way, I'm glad. My son has turned into a baby beat box.

Why, do you ask, does this make me happy? Because despite all Mark's protests and railing against drum practice, it's sticking. The lessons, the knowledge, the joy of percussion -- Mark's got it.

I remember my brother Tim and my cousin Michael as boys. They played drums, and they couldn't walk by any surface (including our heads) without drumming on it -- with their fingers, with their drumsticks, with pencils, with whatever. It was a constant beat, a constant movement and noise, and at the time, a constant irritation. (Then again, everything my brothers did when we were kids was annoying!)

But now, as an adult, it makes me smile. Mark's drum lessons aren't just torture any more, he's actually starting to enjoy and retain the information, and the evidence is -- you guessed it -- a constant drumming.

Which is the good news. The bad news, as I mentioned, is the constant drumming on everything, and now, the beat boxing.

It started yesterday as I was getting ready for work. I could hear him dancing down the hallway, grunting and making all sorts of noises. "Boom ba, boom boom ba, boom ba, boom boom ba, eee eee eee eee!" was what it sounded like, but at least he had a pretty good beat going. The boy's got rhythm.

The sounds quieted a bit, and I figured he was getting dressed. Soon enough, they grew loud again, and then louder still, and as I brushed my hair, I realized he was very close. As in, on the other side of the bathroom door, beatboxing his little heart out. I just listened to him and smiled.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I opened the door, and there he was, not only beatboxing, but dancing as well.

"Yo yo yo yo, Mama!" he sang, throwing his hands in the air. "Boom, boom, POW!"

I couldn't help it, I cracked up. "Yo, MC Marky Mark, go make your bed!" I told him, and he danced off toward his room.

"Boom boom BA!" he replied. I watched him pull the comforter across his bed as he sang out, "Wiki wiki wiki wik!"

And then the littlest human beat box collected his backpack and headed off to third grade.

Never a dull moment in my house, I tell ya!