and i heard from the hills a band was made

Each morning I spend nearly a half hour preparing Ethan's breakfast: chopped fruits, melon, oatmeal. Anything that I can whip up while dreaming still both of sleep and a double tall latte from Starbucks. He wakes up easily in the mornings, lately before the first glimpse of sunlight, eager to begin a day that holds so much promise and potential. This morning I spent twenty minutes peeling, dicing, chopping fresh fruits for his breakfast along with a sweet potato pancake. It only took him seconds to smash his palms into the food and mash it up onto his tray. He drums constantly these days, on any surface he can find: with his straw cup on the handle of the Target shopping cart, with a stacking block on the leg of his easel, with his open palm against his thigh. When you say the words dance, dance, dance! he smiles and drums harder and harder.

In high school, my husband played bass guitar in a band. In those days, when we were fifteen, he arrogantly signed a copy of their CD for me. In these days, he is embarrassed when friends ask to hear the yellowed Memorex disc that still sits in a cabinet shared by all of my favorite possessions, such as my first film SLR camera and my complete Roseanne box set. (Right now he's even more embarrassed of the fact I mentioned I own Roseanne DVDs than the aforementioned CD.) Through the days of band practices and local shows, I always hoped that my future children inherited my husband's musical abilities instead of my tonedeafness, so long as they weren't the drummer. I think of this each time he bangs things together once music begins playing. I think of this with defeat as I add a children's drum set to my list of potential gifts for his birthday.

He loves to eat the smashed food with his fingers, dripping lifeless remnants of honeydew and banana down the front of his pajamas. As he picks up the tiny pieces of crushed foods between his pointer and thumb, I am always shocked to find such a boy sitting there in front of me. That newborn baby, that infant, seems to be gone somewhere, banished to the land of photograph albums and scrapbooks. We've also closed the chapter on pureed foods and have moved onto meals -- real meals, to be eaten with a fork -- and life once again seems to have won no matter how much I try to drag my heels. Sometimes I lay in bed at night and can't escape the sound of his drumming against something, so sure that I hear it over the baby monitor when really there is only silence. Silence for very few short hours until my day begins to the sound of his babbling, the sound of his laughter, the sound of him drumming with his fists across the bar of his crib. And already my day will be made.


  1. This is a beautiful post. I too have a drummer on my hands these days. This story speaks to me mama! B was also in a band {but in college}, except he was the drummer and I too have a signed copy of their demo stored away to show off. This whole one-year old thing was scary to embrace, but let me tell you, it's great. Exhausting? Yes. But isn't that every stage? Continue to embrace it. It's pretty spectacular.

  2. My husband played drums... drumming is just a way of life in our house. ;) Though I envy that you even *have* half an hour with your son in the morning, mine's a late sleeper so I don't see her until I get home in the evenings Monday - Friday (she stays home with daddy, he works evenings).

    Following you from the Welcome Wednesday hop, hope you have a moment to drop by and say hi!

    Happy Hour Projects

  3. what camera do you use? your pictures are stunning!!


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