Because I Don't Want To Be That Woman

The division of labor within our marriage and house is pretty traditional. A. works full-time. I take care of the house and the children full-time. I cook. He earns money. I clean. He fixes things.

He sometimes does the dishes. I sometimes fix things. But it's frightening how quickly I can fall into the trap of thinking that just because I don't usually do something means that I can't.

Take the cellar steps, for instance. The fourth step down disconnected completely from the riser this week when the nails just rusted right out (they're probably at least a hundred years old--these things happen at Blackrock). It was possible to step on it to get up and down, but only if I was very careful to step on the back part sort of gingerly so it didn't tip me down the steps. I mentioned it to A. I said I would have to fix it. He told me the steps are made of two-inch-thick, old-growth oak and it would take some really big nails and a lot of dedicated hammering to get those nails into those steps.

So I thought I would let him do it.

WOAH THERE, HELPLESS HANNAH.

That's stupid. I can use a hammer. I mean, sure, I'm not as strong as A., but the purpose of a hammer is to allow people to drive nails even without significant strength.

Still, I stepped gingerly on that step for three days before I finally mentally slapped myself and found some nails to hammer in.

It took all of two minutes. I didn't even bend the nails (I won't lie--this often happens when I have to hammer in long nails). And now I don't have to worry about going ass over tea kettle into the cellar every time I have to do some laundry.

Running a chainsaw, fixing the water pump, and lifting enormous stones are all things I'm happy to leave to my husband. But hammering in a couple of nails? Don't be ridiculous, Kristin.