When we got to the drum circle, we grabbed a couple of instruments and joined in. I can't sing well enough even to warble "Happy Birthday" in tune, but I guess I can bang out a beat at least capably enough to blend in. The kid was in heaven. There were twenty adults or so and exactly one rugrat. At one point, the leader asked, "Does anyone have a song?"
The group was silent and then a single hand shot up. Would you like to guess to whom that hand belonged? Go on, guess. My little shrinking violet was brought to the front and handed a microphone. It seemed to occur to her just then that she hadn't actually selected a song. She just wanted to be chosen . . . for anything, I imagine. I'm guessing she never heard the original question, as listening is not her best skill. The leader suggested "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
The kid was a bit shy for the first run-through. But by the second time through, she was comfortably singing into the microphone while some twenty adults accompanied her on drums and various other percussion instruments. When she was done singing, she headed back to her spot to bang the drum some more.
Somewhere along the way, the aspirin kicked in and my blood supply agreed to disperse itself throughout my frame and to stop focusing so specifically on my head. I pounded away on a drum and had two simultaneous thoughts in my brain. One: banging a drum is downright therapeutic. Two: if she gets famous someday, I hope she buys me a really nice house. What? The famous people gotta come from somewhere!
I hope it has walk-in closets. And a whirlpool.