A hammer, nails, and wood — it must be the magic recipe for silence because it’s blissfully quiet now

You ask for nails.

Not the kind that extend from the tips of fingers and need to be snipped or periodically get covered in Essie’s Ballet Slippers — those nails I can deal with.

No, you want the nails that serve as breeding grounds for tetanus. The kind that rust over the winter, then poke someone in the spring, the kind that show up right before a visit to the emergency room.

And because you’re a ten year old boy, the thought of you doing anything remotely constructive with small pieces of pointy metal is unfathomable, so obviously you’re planning something dangerous or nefarious, and Hashem knows we need to limit the dangerous and nefarious things around here which is why I threw out the saw when you weren’t looking.

But you’re insistent in that ten-year-old boy way, positively dazzling in your nagging. You wear me down all day, then carefully pick the right moment to break that last weary thread — when I’m on the phone with my sister and feeding the toddler chicken while taking the potatoes out of the oven.

Snap.

Fine, fine, fineeee. I’ll take you to the store. We’ll get your nails.

You ask me for nails but you don’t ask if you can take the old cabinets stacked by the dumpster and bring them into the backyard. That you do without permission and honestly, I’m okay with it. If you want to schlep garbage cabinets down the street, go for it. There’s worse mischief a ten-year-old boy can get into.