Please, tell me you have a key

How is it that someone this cute




















can wreak so much havoc?

I'm sure you know that's not just a rhetorical question, too. Lesson In Parenting No. Something Like 546: Always Take a Key With You. To the mailbox. To the car. To the backyard. Heck, it might not even be a bad idea to take a key with you to the bathroom. And yes, for God's sake, take a key with you when you walk out onto the porch of the beach house.

As you may have now guessed what what my dear sweet son did yesterday, let me just confirm your suspicions. My lovely child managed to lock me and his daddy out of our beach house this morning. David and I were standing there on the deck wearing only our bathing suits, all greased up in our sunscreen, while our son was grinning at us from inside. Drunk in his newfound ability to lock and unlock doors, William had bided his time, waiting for me to step out onto the porch so he could bounce up and flip that deadbolt.

We stood there for the better part of 15 minutes, screaming through the glass door, "Turn the lock! To the right! The right! No, the RIGHT! Please? Please turn the lock and open the door! Please? Come ON, William! Open the door!" Was that an effective strategy? Yeah, not so much.

And he looks so angelic, right? Harumph.

Finally, David jammed his beach flip-flops on his feet and went stomping off. He was going to walk the three miles down to the rental agency to get another key. And he was Not Amused. Meanwhile, William grinned and giggled and pretended to turn the lock when I was dancing up and down in front of the door, flapping my arms uselessly like a mad duck, trying to talk him into turning that blasted deadbolt. I'm not quite sure but I think I heard him say, "You funny, Mommy!" Of course, then he cried loudly when I turned away and walked down the porch in frustration. When he got bored with me at last, he went and found his new lift-the-flap book from the North Carolina Aquarium to entertain himself.

Did I mention it was hot, and I was all greasy with a thick marinade of sunscreen? I worked up quite a sweat doing all that useless flapping and cajoling. Ick. I felt like a glazed doughnut.

Luckily, our upstairs neighbors came down the stairs when I was about to go crazy (okay, crazier than usual) and asked what was going on. The husband ran up to get his keys and took off in his car to pick up David and drive him down to the office and back. Thank God. I was dreading the thought of dealing with David after six miles of walking up and down the beach in the hot sun at mid-day when he could have been lounging in the shade under the beach umbrella, where his son could bury his feet in the sand.

So it all worked out. See, we're all still friends here:

















And yes, we learned our lesson. I stashed an extra key in the beachbag, and David put one in the pocket of his swimsuit. I'll be making, oh, a few dozen extra house keys when I get back to Nashville. Nashville peeps, let me know if you want to be a Keymaster, 'k?

Another couple beach shots:















































More pictures to come, of course...