– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young – - Are any of us ever ready for a hammer?

A couple weeks ago, I wrote about my little pal Warren, who is seven, and how adorable he is, in the things he does and says. Well, the response to his antics proved so positive, that I decided to write another. This recount is about his love of power tools and how he uses them around the office.

Before you call child protective services, we’re talking plastic children’s toys here.

Anyway, when he was much younger, I think about three, we got him a canvas tool belt, complete with small plastic screwdriver, wrench, measuring tape, walkie-talkie and hammer. He was delighted – especially with the hammer. A little too much, actually.

He went about, knocking on the table, chair legs, even desks. Since the hammer is just plastic, we didn’t take it away, but gently reminded him with each tap, that he wasn’t to hit things with it, except his “building projects.”

He seemed to understand and instead, decided to hoist it in his tiny arms, way over his head and charge at Julia (who was our reporter, but has since taken a different job), aiming for her torn knee.

“NOOOOOOO,” all three of us bellowed at him in tandem, with our hands out, like STOP! He halted his race toward her and stared at us, puzzled, like he couldn’t quite comprehend that someone wouldn’t want to be hit with a hammer as hard as they could.

We decided that perhaps he was a bit too young to have the hammer and put it up, out of his reach. He cried a bit and whined, but we were unmoved. A few times after that, he would point at the place where we had stashed it and whimper, but we stood firm.

Eventually, he seemed to forget about it and played with the remainder of the tools. For example, he had an older fire truck that was almost as long as he was and it began to have “mechanical problems.” The one time, he had it over on my side of the room and was standing there, with wrench in hand, both hands on his hips, looking down at the vehicle.

He looked up at me as I walked over to him and sadly shook his head, as he told me, “Don’t wike.” Trying not to laugh, I asked him, “You don’t like the looks of it?” He continued shaking his head. “Don’t wike. Weaking oileil.” Watching his little tongue twist, as he tried to say oil, was hysterical.

Warren then proceeded to “fix” the truck, by laying down flat on the carpet and pulling the truck over him. Like Julia pointed out, well, technically, you do typically work on the underneath of vehicles, so, he wasn’t strictly wrong on how to go about it.

About a year after that, he put his tool belt on and was positioning his tools, when he realized something was missing. “Where’s my hammer?” he asked sadly. “Remember, you tried to hit people with it and it got taken away,” I told him.

He looked askance, to the side. “Oh. Yeah.” I asked him, “Do you think you’re old enough now, not to hit people with it?” He gazed into the distance for a moment, then heaved a big sigh. “No,” he said, shaking his head regretfully.

The hammer stayed where it was and he didn’t ask for it again.

Meanwhile, he also had to fix his little plastic grill, which, again, was almost as tall as he was. He pulled it over to my side of the room and while I was typing away, I could hear everything that went on. He began by examining the grill.

“Wine’s weaking,” he informed me over his shoulder, as he was bent down. Hmm, that’s not good. I internally sympathized with him, but didn’t disturb his train of thought.

A few minutes later, “Aaah. I see.” He turned to me. “Somehow, water got in the wine and it fwoze. Gonna hafta cwear it out.” He did that, I kept writing.

I’d just hit print, when I heard him mutter, “Huh.” Then, on the walkie-talkie, low, “I’m unna need some help wiff iss one. Over.”

Snickering behind my hand, I went on with my work, until finally, Warren informed us he was done. “I fixed it,” he proclaimed proudly, smiling and sweeping his arm out to show us. “With help,” I chimed in, raising an eyebrow, thinking of the walkie-talkie call.

With a frozen smile, he turned to me, as if to say, “They weren’t supposed to know that.”

Hey, you repair something by my desk, I know all, I tell all.

When he was five, against the better judgment of my compatriots, I decided that perhaps he was old enough that the hammer could come back into service. He gravely promised he wouldn’t hit anyone. Once back in his eager little hands, Warren greeted it like an old friend, stuck it in his belt, where it promptly fell out, because he had the belt on upside down, then trotted around, looking for something to fix.

Despite it being my idea to give the hammer back, I figured it would be back on the shelf before closing time, but he surprised me, and kept his promise and didn’t hit anyone.

At least not with the hammer.