Keys

Almost everything I've read about parenting toddlers claims these creatures have short attention spans and are easily distracted. In retrospect, I fear I may have birthed some species of alien life form.

"Keys!" Eli demands adamantly the moment he awakes in the morning. His father sighs and obediently fetches the car keys he has pried from his sleeping son's fist the night before. Complying to this royal edict is the only way we can keep the peace in the mornings.

Eli is into keys big time. Not just any keys. Car keys. What manner of child is this whose obsession has lasted months in the running? We have tried distracting him with shiny bunches of house keys, and the realistic "car" keys that Reader's Digest keeps sending to keep our hopes up about winning that all too elusive fabled-fairy-tale car. Instead of taking the bait like any normal toddler would, Eli throws horrendous tantrums.

"Keys-a-waaancerrrrr!" He screams.

And so we hand him the keys to Atch's ancient Lancer, and he carries them about proudly, clicking occasionally on the remote, alternately locking and unlocking the car doors. If we are lucky, he may condescend to restrain himself from triggering the earsplitting alarm and shattering the quiet calm of the neighborhood.

He takes a dump on his potty, keys in hand. He take his morning and afternoon naps holding them to his chest, as well. Only by dint of will and thousands of ingenious inducements does his nanny succeed in divesting him of them just before bath time.

And during those horrendous couple of days when Atch, without prior permission from his younger son, had the gall and disrespect to take said Lancer to the shop for repainting, we endured Eli's screams and yells until the beloved keys returned with the vehicle attached to it. Afterwards, he spent more than an hour inside the car with them, clicking on the remote with all the speed of a toddler suffering from Parkinson's.

Finally, the day arrived when the batteries ran out, and we beheld our son, in the first of many days to come, waiting with hands outstretched when we arrived from work.

"Keys cwosswind!"

He never even gives us a second glance the moment they are in his grasp. And there they stay all throughout dinner until he falls asleep - car keys to the bank's company car the sole property of one Elijah Raphael Tiples.


We pray fervently each morning before we leave for work, that he restrains himself from giving in to the impulse to hide them, just like he did the first few times, causing Atch and I to turn the apartment upside down in frantic search.

They never believed me at work the first few times I was late. I hardly believe it, either.