The Tooth Fairy Takes a Bow

My daughter lost a tooth the other night. She’s ten, and tooth loss is standard procedure by now. She leaves the tooth on her nightstand, wakes to find a dollar in its place, and on we go.

By “standard procedure,” I mean our Tooth Fairy tries hard to abide it and constantly misses the mark. She is distracted. She is tired. She tells herself to set an alarm on her phone reminding her to swing by, and forgets to do even that.

So the night came and went. Yesterday my daughter woke to find a tooth and no dollar.

Despite this and many other failings over the years, she has never complained. It was raining last night, she’d say. That’s probably why she couldn’t come. Or, the dog might have scared her away. One time, she wrote a thoughtful reminder note when the Fairy missed her two nights in a row. The Fairy, feeling guilty, responded. It turned into a weeks-long correspondence that left the Fairy wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

By now, my daughter knows. And we know she knows. But we realized a while back that she’s the type of kid who will never ask, and we are fine with following her lead.

Yesterday she also happened to go to the dentist. I mentioned the newly lost tooth. As we checked out, I asked how many baby teeth she had left to lose.

“None,” the hygienist said. “That was her last one.”

I felt a twinge in my chest. Wait. No more baby teeth? No more chances to get this right?

My daughter was thrilled, because this meant she'd beaten her big sister to becoming a mouth-adult, and she’ll take any victory she can get. (Her sister asked for a serious conversation about the Tooth Fairy years ago. She gave up the magic and doesn’t seem to mind being handed her tooth money in broad daylight). 

I walked out feeling unexpectedly emotional. You’re always ready to document and celebrate your kid’s “firsts.” Mine have plenty of firsts ahead of them, but now they have clear lasts, too. Last year of grade school. Last year before teenagehood descends on us. The Tooth Fairy’s last run.

Now that I don’t have to do it anymore, I wish I’d done it better.

I stood in her darkened room late last night holding a dollar, wondering if this leaving-of-money should have more ceremony to it. I wanted to say to her, thanks for believing.

In the end, I didn’t make a big deal of it. After all, she wasn’t sad about this. She was delighted. And when you have kids, sometimes it’s better to live in their world instead of your own.

Having said that, I can't shake the urge to commemorate the Tooth Fairy’s erratic but well-meaning tenure in our house. I might make one more mini-run. If someone reminds me to set my alarm.