The Little Drummer Boy Song

This morning Andrew and I sat down to breakfast at 1:30PM in our kitchen. We were feeling rather pleased with ourselves having trotted around the block for exercise and lifting a weight or two at the gym, and our reward was to build a breakfast smorgasbord filled with freshly baked bread, ham, cheese, butter, sugar coated preserves and coffee with heavy cream and pumpkin pie for dessert.

So there we were at the table, listening to Christmas music on Pandora using the Roku box I bought myself for Andrew’s birthday, and the Little Drummer Boy song begins to play.

Just as I announce, “I love this song,” Andrew blurts, “I hate this song.”

I’m appalled. What kind of Scrooge hates the Little Drummer Boy song?

I give Andrew a look that reads, “Explain yourself.” He doesn’t quite get nonverbal communications, so I follow the look with an audible, “What is your problem? Why do you hate Little Drummer Boy?”

While Andrew compiles his answer, I fondly remember a story from my own youth (er...young adulthood), which I’ll share with you now:

I was shopping with my mother shortly before Christmas when I was about twenty or so, and she was driving around like Batwoman with me in the passenger seat, searching every toy store for the noisiest, most obnoxious child’s Christmas present imaginable.

Shortly before we had left the house that day, I remember asking her why she was carrying a shopping list with things like “Drum Set, Cymbals, Child’s Flute, Electric Keyboard, etc.” on it.

My mother explained that she was going to “get” her brothers now that they’ve had children. She just kept saying that she was just going to “get” them and it would serve them right, etc. etc.

Not quite understanding how children’s toys are going to “get” her brothers, I later did a bit of investigating and discovered this: My mother has been forever involved in this (one-sided and mostly good natured) feud with her brothers, who’d apparently bought my brother and me the noisiest, most obnoxious children’s Christmas presents when we were children.

And so it was my mother's mission to buy my various uncles’ children the same, presumably so my uncles could derive the same enjoyment from the toys as she did.

So, as I’m at the breakfast table with Andrew remembering the drum set/noisy Christmas present story and thinking of Drummer Boy and listening to Drummer Boy and wondering what the heck Andrew’s problem is that he has to dislike drummer boy so much, Andrew finally blurts out, “Well, it’s just a dumb song.”

So I give Andrew a look of confusion, indicating with my expression that he should explain what he means by this. Andrew, oblivious to this nonverbal communication and thinking his a perfectly satisfactory explanation, resumes eating his luxurious breakfast. So I respond with my usual response, “Andrew, that is not a satisfactory explanation.”

What comes next is something those who know Andrew well will recognize. He takes a deep breath, rolls his eyes, and begins with, “So...”

Let me just interject here and tell you that when Andrew begins a sentence in such a way, a diatribe is imminent. And so started the diatribe:

“Alright look. I mean, how much sense does the Drummer Boy song *actually* make? You’ve got a little tiny baby, trying his hardest to sleep, which is what babies do, you know, fall asleep, or at least try to, and then there’s some obnoxious kid running around playing what? Not soft lullaby music to help the baby sleep, no, he’s playing a DRUM set. DRUMS. Little kids playing drums is not music, it’s just noise. I don’t know why anyone would write a song about a kid banging on some drums trying to wake the baby. That’s just stupid.”

Andrew looks at me expectantly (awaiting my wholehearted agreement) and I just start cracking up. I just can’t help myself. And so Andrew’s look of incredulity melts off his face and he starts laughing, too.

And as we’re laughing at that darn Drummer Boy drumming around waking up babies, I remember my mother’s story about the uncles, and the drum sets, etc. So to prolong the breakfast entertainment we’re providing ourselves, I thoughtfully append some additional funniness to Andrew’s diatribe by smartly saying, “Yeah, and I bet that obnoxious Little Drummer Boy got that noisy drum set from one of his dumb uncles LAST Christmas...

...

...oh....wait....nevermind.”