If there’s one thing you must know about my son if you’ve been following this blog for any length of time at all (and I really mean even as recently as a few days ago) it’s that he absolutely loves music. Loves it with every fibre of his visible being. We played music for him in the womb (in part to help him un-breech himself); we introduced him to music early and often; we made a number of instruments available to him without reservation as early as possible. When I briefly studied in Ireland I picked up a tin whistle there and brought it home. I can’t really play it well at all (though I can make it make sounds). Long ago I showed it to my son and he enjoyed it. Once he figured out how to make it whistle it’s always been a constant joy for him to play and here. When it was sitting on a shelf within view he’d constantly ask me to play it for him. I always obliged. It wasn’t until we moved back near family when our son saw drums for the first time in person.
His grandfather is a lifelong drummer and our son picked it up fairly quickly. Oh, he can’t quite keep a rhythm yet, but he’s infatuated with drumming. Now everything is a drumstick in the same way that everything used to be a guitar (like the fly swatter). Soon enough he was grabbing chopsticks, sticks from the yard, pens and pencils, crayons — anything! — to use as a drumstick. Soon enough he started using the tin whistle. The unfortunate part was that he didn’t decide to hit the carpet or the wall with the whistle, he decided to hit his all metal tricycle. Red paint chips flying all over the place. We were treated to a terribly high-pitched ringing sound at all hours of the day. And, most importantly, the tin whistle was being ruined. So, the tin whistle has been retired to a box deep in the dark confines of what little storage area we possess. It will be removed at a later date when our son can clearly discern drumstick from tin whistle (or at least wants to discern them).