...My daughter, A, is a chick with sticks. Only they're not the kind of sticks that most of my readers would think of with a term like that.

They're drumsticks. And yarn wrapped marimba sticks. And bell mallets. Yes, I've got a percussionist in the house. Actually, I have two.

She gets it from her father. Thankfully, she doesn't bang on every little thing like most learning and accomplished drummers and percussionists do (and like he does at times). Yet.

She tried out back in September while she was debating between flute and percussion and the band teacher said WOW for her on percussion, which was a hotly desired position and there were only going to be 4 seats in the class for percussionists. Out of both beginning band sections there are a total of 8 seats, 2 of them occupied by girls and one of them is A. My daughter. Picture a big goofy grin on my face.

She's having a blast. Despite a kid in her class that claims the only reason she's a percussionist is because she's in 7th grade and the band teacher felt bad for her.

He's jealous. And rhythm challenged. And she really is good at what she does. I've watched her practice and watched her work with DH on rolls and how she holds her sticks. She's even tried briefly to teach me a thing or two (but I have a hard time getting the hang of holding the sticks right, so I'll stick to the piano - and teaching B how to play that).

So, Thursday night I'll get the opportunity to hear A play with the band, working her snare and bell kit, the slap sticks and cymbal rolls. I'll be a happy and proud mommy and probably a surprised one too at how good she is. B has watched one combined practice and says the bands are really good.

I can't wait to see and hear for myself. Meanwhile, my little drummer girl is just waiting for her chance to shine even though I know she already does.