"What hast thou to do with sorrow/Or the injuries of tomorrow/Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth/Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks..."
Most nights anymore, our living room is your concert hall. Various plastic containers and metal mixing bowls comprise an expansive, if rudimentary, drum set. You have a real microphone and microphone stand gifted to you by your (great) uncles who we visit each year at the beach. And a small amplifier donated with love by your Peepaw.
Your set list is almost entirely Imagine Dragons. "Believer" and "Thunder" came out shortly after you were born, and we listened to them countless times on the way to and from daycare back in those days. Thankfully, you've expanded your repertoire to include several of their other songs. The only exception is your finale, which is always the Glass Animals' infectious "Heat Waves."
I attempt to play the drums while you sing and dance around the stage in one of several "Singing Man Dan" plaid button-up shirts we've bought for you. (Imagine Dragons lead singer's name is Dan. He wore plaid shirts in a couple of videos. Therefore it only stands to reason that all lead singers must wear plaid.) Some nights your mother will "play" the guitar. And your sister... well, she sometimes serves as a stage dancer, sometimes she joins me on drums, and other times she plays with her dolls unaffected by the ruckus.
You take it all so seriously. We installed multi-colored light bulbs in the ceiling fan light assembly which you adjust to match the stage lights of whichever video you are watching. You are also known for giving strict and explicit instructions to band members during the show should we veer off course. But you once said I was probably the best drummer in the whole world, so that gets me through the scoldings.
You turned six last month. One of my favorite moments of your birthday party was walking outside to see you coming down the bounce-house slide with three girls. You later complained your least favorite part of the day was when said girls had gone inside for a few minutes to play dolls with your sister. (I fight against a strong urge to insert the obligatory "That's my boy!" here.)
After receiving a real bowling ball for your birthday from your Nana, I woke up Sunday to discover that our kitchen had been turned into a four-lane bowling alley. Lane one was comprised of your plastic bowling pins. This devolved into a rag-tag collection of Do-A-Dot markers and plastic bottles for pins across lanes two thru four, at last requiring (and possibly highlighted by) a single, empty Sun Drop can to complete lane four.
You love YouTube. Some genius -- I use this in both the best and most sarcastic senses of the word -- created a mini bowling lane in his house, with a working pin-setter. Now that you've seen that video, you want us to build our own. (Thanks a lot, Braedan Brennaman.) Last year for Christmas, you wanted a lawn mower -- one that legitimately cuts. In the interim, whenever we mow, you carry a pair of scissors as you push your plastic mower, bending down every several steps to trim some blades of grass.
You are smart, sensitive, energetic, and far too sweet for this world. A wonderful big brother to a sister who doesn't always deserve it.
We were at the doctor's office a couple of weeks ago when you pointed to the wall behind me and said excitedly, "Daddy, I know that painting!" "Really, what is it, buddy?" "It's called the Starry Night," you said sweetly just as I turned around to see a copy of Van Gogh's famed masterpiece, while thinking to myself, "I don't think I knew that until I was twenty-five!"
There is little doubt you will soar higher than I ever dreamed. I can't do it for you. No matter how many times I wish I could, I can't do any of it for you. But I will always be there to steady the ladder as you climb.
Overjoyed that for a little while I got to be the drummer in your concert.
