Are Those Your Keys?

Standing in line at a fast food restaurant, 3 year-old Sawyer was eye level with the keys dangling in the hand of the man in front of us. He looked at the keys, craned his neck to scope out the man, and then looked longingly back at the keys. Finally, with a speculative gleam in his darling blue eyes, he said, “Hey mister, are those your keys?” Pete and I both sprang into action, as if the kid had dynamite strapped to his chest and his finger on the detonator. “Don’t give him your keys!” Pete shouted, while I barked at the bewildered man, “Don’t even let him hold them!” Sad experience had taught us that the child had mad Houdini skills when it came to keys. My sister once innocently let him play with her keys while we were visiting in Indiana and three weeks later, back in Ohio, we found the whole set in the garage of his Fisher Price playhouse. (Because that’s where you keep the keys, of course.)

He loved, collected, carried, hid and played with them endlessly. He shaved about 4 years off my lifespan when he stuck one in an electrical outlet just to see what would happen. What happens is the house shorts out, the socket turns black, mom makes an NFL worthy tackle and the child gets the shock of his life.

When Pete bought a John Deere tractor to mow our large yard in Ohio, Sawyer could not keep his hands off the tractor keys. We fastened them to tennis balls and chained them to yard implements, but every time Pete went to mow, the keys were missing. When Pete would ask, Sawyer would say, “I’ll get ‘em, Dad” and then disappear into the Fortress of Lost Keys (his bedroom) and come out dangling a set on his little kleptomaniac fingers. Well, sometimes. Other times Pete would just sheepishly drive back to the John Deere dealer and buy another key. We had to do this so often they kept them in stock for us.

One of the happiest days of our life was when my Aunt Rita gave him an entire box of old keys saved from the Harley Davidson dealership she once owned. Keys, glorious keys! There were golf cart keys, and motorcycle keys and old skeleton keys and they were ALL for him. We thought this would satisfy his urge, but after a short while he seemed to realize those keys didn’t have the same power to make mom and dad run shrieking through the house, turning trash cans upside down and begging a 3-year-old to “please tell mommy where you put the keys…”

That blue-eyed 3-year-old is now 16, 6’ 3” and shaving. A couple of days ago, he got in the car with a driving instructor at the DMV and turned the key. I watched from the curb, stomping on my imaginary brake, as he parallel parked and backed up for the test. They drove away for the road portion and I entertained myself watching two twin sisters taking their test. The first one returned and hit the ground running, exuberantly waving her test paper, shouting, “I passed, I passed!” The second twin drove off for her test and I idly listened as the first twin replayed every acceleration and turn for her happy parents. Then there was silence…and then tears….the second twin had returned and apparently failed her test.

Unable to bear her tearful recital of nervous mistakes, I went inside to wait and selfishly hope the same thing wouldn’t happen to Sawyer. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, for him or the twin, but it could certainly seem like it when you want something so much.

Minutes crawled by until the door finally opened and that crooked grin announced the good news.

I gave him another set of keys today. I don’t think he’ll lose them. In fact, I don’t even think he’s coming back.