We Bought My Son a Drum Kit

As a writer, as someone who craves peace, as someone who can be, frankly, anti-social at times, I have to question our decision to buy Bradley a drum kit for his sixth birthday. Yes, it is an appropriately and mercifully small drum kit (bass drum, tom, snare, hi-hat), but since we lack a finished basement, it now resides in the middle of our living room. That is not an exaggeration. We have a lovely white divan, the ottoman portion of which is now Bradley's drum stool. I have to admit that I was hoping he wouldn't love it. But he is a high-energy, determined, loud music-loving kid. Once we downloaded a couple of songs for him to drum along with ("Yellow Submarine," "Back in Black"--We haven't yet downloaded "Seven Nation Army," as a drummer friend suggested), the game was over for us. Whereas he usually has an attention span of five minutes, Bradley is able to sit at the kit for an hour sometimes, pounding away, very often actually on the beat. The saving grace thus far is that he does not favor the cymbal. We may have to conspire never to let him know there was a band called Led Zeppelin.