Tag Archives: Matchbox cars

Found Objects

I earned my Rock Star Mom status today.

At least in the eyes of my three year old.

“Mama, where are my Toy Story race cars?”

That’s right, I told him I would look under the sofa for his missing cars. Days ago.

Our sofa is the bane of my interior decorating existence. It’s a behemoth secondhand sectional. Ten feet by seven feet of so-ugly-ugly-gets-offended brocade that sucks in dog hair like water to a dry sponge. We’re too damn broke to replace it, so it stays. There’s always something more important we have to pay for. The mortgage, health care, groceries, little stuff like that.

Cleaning under it is a little like spelunking.

Armed with my Dyson Animal, a Swiffer Wetjet, anda heart full of fear, I went under.

An hour later I presented Felix with my findings.

One of the Toy Story race cars remains MIA, but look at all the treasures!

I can be done with household chores for today, right?

Matchbox Quicksand

I am drowning in a quicksand of matchbox cars. The dream is exquisite in its clarity. The cool metal, the chips in the finish where my small boy has crashed them into one another rough against my cheeks. The dull click and clatter as dozens, hundreds, thousands of them spill down over me. I can feel the smooth plastic tires pressing against my eyes. The fear of opening my mouth to scream and swallowing some small vehicle chokes me as I grope for wakefulness.

As the dream’s gravity sucks me deeper into a sea of miniatures, pinning my arms above my head, my hands reach for a surface which slips further and further over my head with every second. My legs cannot kick against the weight of so much metallic sand. I can breathe, but the tang of gradually warming aluminum and enamel taints each breath. I am afraid.