Boomsticks

So last night, Scott and I thought we'd give Sam a thrill by taking him to our local Guitar Center, seeing as he has been obsessed with all things drum-related for the past couple of months.  He has a specially dedicated cabinet in the kitchen filled with metal bowls, wooden spoons and other implements that are lovingly referred to as his "boomsticks."  Seriously, this child will sit on my lap and watch video after video of Buddy Rich and Neil Peart playing drum solos at drummerworld.com.  We pull up to church and he shouts out "BOOMS" and runs to the drum set in the corner to pester poor Phil, the amazingly talented (and patient) percussion guy.

So, I thought it was time for him to maybe take an up-close look at some electronic drum sets, and to see if there was anything small we could buy for him to play with at home.  We had no idea what we were in for.

On a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, we walk into the unsuspecting store and head to the left, into the room devoted especially to drums.  There was an entire WALL with cymbals of all sizes mounted and ready to be hit.  Drum sets, snare drums, electronic drum kits, shakers, cow bells, bongos of all sizes, rain sticks...you name it, every kind of percussion instrument filled the room.  He ran in, the drool started to drip from his mouth, he began pounding with his fists on the cymbals at his level.  

The tattoo covered clerk, with a massive metal ring through his ear, asks, "Can I help you?"  and proceeded to be quite awesome about the whole thing.  Loved that Sam was into drums at not-quite-two and totally let him play on the electronic kit in the back.  My problem came when I stupidly handed Sam a set of junior drum sticks and let him run back to the cymbal wall.  After seven seconds we realized it wasn't a good idea and I attempted to take them back.

Big mistake.  My mild-mannered boy who has yet to have a public tantrum (knock on wood), lost it.  It was like I was trying to remove a kidney or something.  

His eyes filling with tears, he screams out, "NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooo, moommmyyyy", and dissolves into a limp puddle on the floor, hugging the sticks to his tiny, heaving chest.  The guys behind the counter are watching and I'm sweating and Scott is getting mad that we brought our toddler into a room filled with such temptation and basically I'm totally regretting the entire adventure.  

I look back at the tattooed man and giggle nervously and say to the clerk, "well, we'll take these drum sticks for sure."  And a shaker.  And a small set of bongos.  Scott thinks I am rushing it, but only time will tell.

He slept with the drum sticks last night in his crib.