I have no doubt that if you know me in real life, you’re scratching your head and saying “Yeah, are you sure this is your biggest parenting fail?” To which I say, “Go do the dishes.” Because if we know each other in real life and you’re reading my blog, I probably married you or gave birth to you, and I’m sure you have a list of the wrong turns I’ve made along the way.
I was a kid once, and as a former child I am a big fan of the various mythical creatures that populate most childhoods. I enjoy passing down those traditions to my own children. Not to toot my own horn, but I rock the Santa gig. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not Mom #4. (Click the link, thank me later. That blog’s hilarious.) I don’t go nuts, but I am really good at choosing a cool gift for each of my kids. We do Easter baskets and all, but we don’t do the Easter bunny bit, mostly because the Girl-child was totally creeped out by the whole bunny idea by the time she was in preschool. I get a pass on that one. But one creature is my magical Achilles heel. I suck at tooth-fairying.
I didn’t have the best example to follow. When I lost my first tooth, I put it under my pillow. The next morning, there was no money, only a note. It read “I’m sorry. I had too many teeth to carry, and I’ll come back for yours tonight. Love, Timothy.” The note rocked my world, and I wept as only a heartbroken child can weep. I don’t know which was more upsetting – that I had no quarter, or that my Tinkerbell tooth-fairy friend was a dude.
When Girl-child was little, I was all over the tooth-fairy gig. She was our first baby, and such rites of passage as cash from a fairy were like crack to me. For about two years. By the time she was seven, the shine had rubbed off that particular coin, and I had lost interest. More often than not, the kid woke up the morning after losing a tooth, shoved her hand under her pillow, then wandered into the kitchen to inform us that while she appreciated that the tooth-fairy had let her keep the tooth, she couldn’t find any money.
In my defense, some of the time we hadn’t forgotten; our wallets were just empty. Something told me a second grader would not be satisfied with a ticket stub for “Fellowship of the Rings” and a car wash coupon. It wasn’t my fault Tinkerbell doesn’t accept debit cards. The rest of the time, the blame was all on us, and we’d shoot each other a look of sheer panic, whispering “It was your turn this time!” Then one of us would secretly unearth a dollar from her piggy bank and insist she hadn’t looked for her money properly, and we’d help her find her pay out. Which she would promptly put in her piggy bank
for next time. We’re awesome parents.
The Padawan began losing his teeth right about the time Girl-child stopped believing in the tooth fairy. I’d like to say I got better at tooth-fairying, but that would be lying. I got worse. How much worse? The Padawan doesn’t even bother with the pillow ritual anymore; he just leaves the teeth where we can find them. At the moment, we have two molars sitting on the coffee maker.
When we planned our kids, we did so with the intention that we not have two in college at the same time. It sounds good on paper until you look at the fine print. It means fifteen straight years of deciduous teeth. Fifteen straight years of crushing childhood dreams, one premolar at a time.What were we thinking?
I may be off the hook with Squish. He lost his first tooth on Friday, and he insists that the tooth-fairy does not exist. I’m torn; On the one hand, I want the kid to experience the same magic of childhood that I did. On the other hand, no tooth-fairy.
I don’t think I have to tell you which way I am leaning. If it’s childhood magic I want, I can always read him Harry Potter.
Am I alone here? Do you have a least favorite magical being?