Son #2 got drums and a few other percussion instruments designed for toddlers on his second birthday. One evening, Son #2 strutted around the living room with the large drum strapped to his shoulders. He pounded with the drumsticks in style. My husband and I cheered him on from our comfortable chairs.
Rat at tat tat. Son #2 marched as he drummed to the beat in his head.
Rat a tat tat. Son #2 spun around and strode toward the kitchen.
Son #2 beat the drum with his sticks several more times until he was distracted by a cartoon on the television. The animated figures dancing about the screen reeled him away from his drums. Son #2's arms hung limply as his hands relaxed their grasp on the drumsticks. The drum dangled from its strap on my toddler's neck. He was completely engrossed in cartoon's tale.
My husband and I began a conversation about something random. We really began to discuss this random thought when all of a sudden we heard a tiny voice cry out. "Help! Help!"
My husband and I stopped our discussion and turned toward the direction of the little voice. We heard it again. "Help! Help!"
There Son #2 stood with the drum hanging lopsided from his neck and shoulder. My husband rushed over to save him. Son #2 cried out once more. "Help me!"
My husband helped Son #2 out of the drum's strap and gave him a little hug. Son #2 patted his dad's shoulder and said. "Tatu." (Translation: Thank you.) Then as if nothing had happened, Son #2 toddled over to his drums to play once again.
Apparently, Son #2 is one tough little dude.