One of the nicer things about living with kids is that you are always in for a surprise. Just a few days ago, I was tidying up after a late dinner when I happened to be accosted by a dinosaur. In my own little pantry. Right next to a posse of superheroes.
It’s a constant source of amusement/alarm, these sudden appearances of toys in various places in the house. Once, I was awakened by a hard poke in my back and groggily found that I was sleeping with a wooden alphabet block. Sometimes I would step into the bathroom and right next to the soap, like a timid offering, is the lopped off head of Ronald McDonald. I would discover a purple wind-up spider in my closet, bobble-head Rugrats inside my shoes. One time, coming home late at night, I almost died because of a colony of Lego blocks left on the stairs.
But my favorite surreal moment involving toys (sounds kinky, huh?) is that time one morning when I woke up to find myself completely surrounded by cars. Toy cars formed a traffic line around my entire body–small matchbox cars, a couple of model autos, plastic cars with mismatched stickers, a limp bus missing a wheel, little plastic race cars in primary colors. While I was asleep, my boys who are early risers, placed all the cars in their possession around me. I felt like Gulliver, waking up in a Lilliputian parking lot.