Geez, that post takes me back.
My father had a construction business and when I was perhaps 9 or 10 years old he brought home a scizzors style manlift to reshingle the roof. I was the designated helper of course, fascinated by the controls. Saturday morning, Mom headed out to do the weekly grocery shopping and the last thing out of her mouth was "don't let him operate that machine by himself!".
The taillights were still visible as Dad said "Go down and get me a couple more bundles of shingles."
(Somewhat later in life, I learned that when Dad was 9 or 10 he lived by his wits on the streets of war torn Holland, the Nazis having taken the rest of his family as forced labour in Berlin. By his standards, he was coddling his children. We didn't have to eat boiled shoe leather and tulip bulbs.)