I’m almost positive I do not own a hammer. I do own a small upholstery tacker and a variety of soft-faced mallets. And I do keep a small sledge and a heavy-ass wrecking-bar-type-thing in the back of the storage closet, for those would-be moments. But a traditional, framing hammer? I’m almost sure I don’t own one. This wasn’t intentional; I’ve been acquiring and inheriting tools for some time. I suppose I’ve just never needed one.
I realized this only recently. Mathilda—our two-year-old—was playing with one of those plastic tool sets someone-at-some-point gifted her. Weirdly, she kept reaching for the hammer. For every little task. Like it was instinct. It made me stop and think.
After a minute, I told Mathilda that—when she’s older—if she ever finds herself wielding an actual hammer, she’s probably doing something wrong. Or, at least she’ll be doing something that—now that I’d thought about it—her dad hasn’t ever done. Which means—hey—don’t call me when stuff goes to hell; I’ve never owned one of those things.