The Tooth Fairy Cometh

A-Train lost his second tooth yesterday, and with it went all traces of the baby boy I first held in my arms six years, five months and four days ago. The sweet, chubby baby face is gone, replaced by a much slimmer, more mature version, one that is a near perfect reflection of my own. And soon will come the giant teeth- the ones that are too big for his precious face. But, last night there was more pressing business than the worries of adult teeth in a child's mouth. Last night, the tooth fairy had to come.

Truth be told, I loathe the Tooth Fairy. It's not her (or even him, as A-Train has suggested), it's me- all me. I feel a bit of guilt every time I perpetuate a myth of childhood. Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy- they're all hard for me to swallow. Part of it is the lie, but a greater part is the unfamiliarity I have with these creatures.

Growing up, I never believed in any of them. All I was taught about them was that they didn't exist.

When A-Train was a baby we didn't know what we would eventually tell him about Santa. We settled on letting him decide for himself. Each year we brought him to the mall and propped him on the jolly old elf's lap where he (A-Train, not Santa) screamed himself silly and we documented his fear for the photo album. But we never said who Santa was, or what he did.

Then, the December just before he turned 3, A-Train announced to us that Santa brings you presents on Christmas Eve. And thus it was decided. A-Train has passed his beliefs on to Big D and now we have two boys who are enthralled with the magic of Christmas.

And one mom who is kind of on the fence. I just feel too guilty. And so unprepared.

And that leads us back to the Tooth Fairy. Having never been on the receiving end of the TF's good will, it's hard to know what to do when you are the TF! And there are so many questions from The Boy that Mama doesn't know the answers to:

How does she know I lost a tooth?
How much money does she bring?*
How does she get in the house?**
Does she have wings?
Where does she live?
Does she visit little boys who don't do their chores?***

I get a little nauseated. And then I see the sheer look of excitement in the eyes of my six-year-old. Those eyes so much like my own, but filled with a wonder my own six-year-old eyes never held. And I just do it.

I answer his questions by asking him what he thinks. And late in the evening, when he's fast asleep, I sneak into his room, reach under his pillow, remove the ground-down, bloody stub of a tooth that I made when he and I were one, and replace it with *three crisp dollar bills.

And this morning, the nausea having subsided and The Boy having discovered his treasure, I know that allowing him the joys of the innocence of childhood is worth a little stomach ache.

** The current theory is that she snuck into the garage a few days ago, hid there waiting for the tooth to fall out, then slipped in through the cat door.

*** As it turns out, yes, she will.