At first, I was quite pleased, being a former drummer myself who still fools around with a conga drum and a djembe every now and then. "Look at her, she's a drummer." I would say and then beam proudly while she thumped out a rhythm less tattoo on my wife's sleeping face.
And I would nod indulgently when she started reaching the djembe and whaling on it as loudly as her little hands could muster while my 7 month old son (the Pumpkin Man) was trying to sleep. "Drummers gotta drum," I would shrug in way of explanation as I rocked the exhausted (and unreasonable) infant back to sleep.
She's been drumming like this now for 4 months or more. At home and at the supermarket. When people are asleep or awake. The nice part is that I get to join in too. Whether I want to or not. "Daddy do it. Daddy do it!" she shrieks while she pounds out the exact beats that have been shown to trigger migraines in lab rats.
I have created a monster. And not a monster in the music lingo "Questlove is a monster on the drums" sense, which is sort of what I was hoping, but rather a monster in the "oh my god that incessant racket is going to make me scoop out my brain with a shoe horn and feed it to the cat" sense.
And I can't stop myself from encouraging it. Even now, the frustrated musician/indulgent daddy in me is willing to put up with it because she might be the next Questlove or Buddy Rich. Right? I mean, it's possible.
So for now, if you happen be in my neighborhood, and you happen to drive by my little pink house, it might be best to roll up your windows and turn on the radio. And don't worry about the crying man with the bleeding ears. His daughter's is going to be a musician!