The Keymaster (feat. Psychological Warfare & The Two-Week Siege) 🗝️

Every child has a thing.

Some collect rocks.

Some collect snails. 

Westley collects… authority.

Specifically, the shiny, jingly, all-powerful keys that unlock every door he’s not supposed to touch, and open a direct portal to mayhem.

It started innocently enough: little Westley jingling my car keys while I typed emails one-handed.

Cute.

After all, my career started as an Executive Assistant: manager of calendars, gatekeeper of chaos, professional organiser of other people’s scattered ideas. 

I thought I understood control.

Ha.

Now I can’t even control my own keys. 

I can’t keep them anywhere. 

Hook by the door? He’ll drag a chair. 

Office drawers? He’ll empty them like a sugar-fuelled auditor. 

I once hid them in a wooden box, inside a drawer, inside another cupboard.

He found them within 24 hours.

We tried decoys: old keys, fake keys, even a USB ring on a lanyard. 

But Westley can smell power. 

He’s got better corporate instincts than some execs, and he’s only 2.

He’s made me late to meetings more times than I can count. 

The situation in this house is escalating into full-on psychological warfare. The second I shout “WHERE ARE THE KEYS?!” the whole family launches into action. 

Activate: survival mode. 

Nan immediately starts upending boxes in the playroom. 

Nathaniel audits the usual spots, throwing cushions off the lounge like a tiny logistics officer. 

Jacksons springs into action like it’s DEFCON 1, patrolling the fenceline, ready for combat.

Meanwhile, I’m sprinting around in heels, laptop bag swinging wildly, hair half-done, muttering like a deranged project manager, praying to the gods of punctuality. Because nothing tests your professionalism quite like being outsmarted by a toddler.

I’ve turned up to work flustered, explaining that, yes, the reason I’m late again is because a two-year-old hid my car keys inside the wheel hub of the caravan. 

Do you know how hard it is to look composed while saying that out loud?

Guests have been trapped in my driveway. Keys have turned up in the washing machine, the fridge, the dog bed, and once, in the spa. It’s only a matter of time until I start budgeting for Uber reimbursements.

But the day that almost broke me was The Motorcycle Ride.

Nathaniel and I had everything ready: helmets, gloves, jackets, the pillion seat on the Harley. Nan was all booked in to watch Westley for a few hours. Nathaniel was glowing with excitement, a rare day out with Mum doing something grown-up and cool. For a moment, I thought, I’m doing alright. I’ve got this work-life balance thing nailed.

Except for one small detail. 

The keys. 

Gone.

Twenty frantic minutes later, Nathaniel on the verge of tears, I found them in the snack drawer, wedged between muesli bars and my fading will to live. Westley had hidden them, I assume as revenge for not being invited. And I swear, I could feel his smug little aura radiating through the walls.

I think he can sense the day's I've got a big meeting or a tight schedule. I sit there, coffee in hand, suit jacket on. Confidence slowly coming online.

Then I hear it. 

Clink.

That metallic warning bell of doom.

There he is. 

Standing on the kitchen bench, Crocs on his feet, waving a bunch of keys like a CEO announcing a restructure. 

He locks eyes with me and declares, “Got keys!”

Then he struts out the back door, Rottweiler in tow, like he owns the place.

And I didn’t move. Because when Westley has keys and intent, it’s already too late.

All you can do is sip your coffee, accept your fate, and wait for destiny to strike: a bang, a crash, or the unmistakable cry of “Muuuuum!”

I took a sip and thought, “Well… at least he’s wearing shoes this time.”

That was two weeks ago.

The keys are still missing.

At this point, I’m not sure if he stole them or I hid them so well I outsmarted myself.

Either way, I’ve lost the war.

I've admitted defeat, I have officially been outplayed in The Game Of Keys. 

I’m getting new ones cut at Bunnings tomorrow.