Keys

The title is literal and figural, as this post is about both the kind of keys one uses to unlock doors and the kind that are fun little clues to what the future may hold.

Andrew loves my keys, possibly more than he loves me. I honestly thought that if I didn't give him my keys to play with for any of his first 22 months, he wouldn't care about them later.

I stand corrected.

To my credit, I was able to keep him at bay for a few days by giving him the key to my old Neon, a key I held onto because I was less than confident that the check from IQ Auto Buyers, an outfit that promises $200 more than Carmax and consists of a few guys wearing golf shirts and looking a little fly-by-nighty, would clear, and I thought I'd have to go repossess said Neon from a ditch off I-10 somewhere. But that key isn't a remote; it is just a key, and, therefore, as Andrew would say, "for shit." I thought I could buy some more time if I found some more keys and put them on a key ring along with the old car key. Perhaps that would have worked, but I bet not for long. It's academic now because I never managed to do it.

Our key ritual has evolved. First, when the Neon key was acceptable, Andrew got his ya-yas from touching the tip of that key into the lock of every apartment door between ours and the garage. Even after he shunned the single key in favor of my ring o' keys, he still liked to try to unlock everyone's door with my Rav4 key. I'm proud to say only two people came out to see if they were being burgled.

Then came the beep-beeps. At some point Andrew realized that when it was Mom's turn for the keys (a phrase I say a lot lately), the lights on our car blinked orange and the car said beep-beep. We now stand for many minutes while he beep-beeps. A couple of variations in the name of scientific experimentation: (1) look at other cars while pressing the buttons, then puzzle over why that car's lights do nothing; (2) press the red button on the remote, then scream bloody murder when the horn sounds a continuous alarm.

Most recently, the kid has been obsessed with our apartment door. He knows which one is our apartment key; he finds that key from the five on the ring, isolates it, and hands it to me. Then we push the key into the lock and turn. We do this for 4, 5 minutes. The frigid air blowing through our wind tunnel of a hallway seems to inspire him to take his time.

The keys teach manners, too. Andrew is slowly learning that when it's Mom's turn for the keys, it's not acceptable to hurl them to the floor in the direction of Mom's feet and then toddle off.

So, what about keys to the future? I don't think there was much doubt by anyone in the know, but Andrew is SMART. His facility and evolution with the keys is one example. Numbers are another. He counts from 1-10 in English and Spanish, but he seems to know it's more than a recitation. For example, he can look at "5" and call it either five or cinco, depending on his mood. As a former linguist, I can tell you this is huge in terms of language acquisition. He knows that "Look, there's a ____ and there's another _____" means there are two ____s, without having to count 1, 2. "Another" is kind of a lofty concept, when you think about it. If he sees one dog, he shouts "DOG!" If he sees two, he exclaims "TWO!" But if he sees three or four, he doesn't say anything. He knows it's not the same as 1 or 2.

He understands that other people experience things, too. I teach him some sign language so he can express what HE wants: milk, eat, help, all finished. A few weeks ago I taught him tired. I didn't think it would go anywhere because I didn't think he would know that tired was the label for that feeling of wanting to sleep. And so far, he doesn't use it to describe his own state. But when I yawned last week, he did the sign for and said his version of tired.

My sweet boy. He holds the keys to my heart.