Earlier this week, my almost-seven-year-old daughter lost her second tooth. Yes, I know it’s late, but...genetics. After excitedly handing me the envelope with her loose tooth right off the school bus and screaming, “I’m getting money!” she stopped in the middle of the street, turned to me and said, “Mom, are you the Tooth Fairy?” Now, an expert at dodging questions I haven’t yet figured out the answer to, I just asked why she was asking.
I shrugged my shoulders and told her she only had 15 minutes to do her homework before tennis. I immediately felt guilty. Not about not answering her, but about putting her in the position I probably dread most—being the only girl in her friend group not in the know.
It’s not that I’m not ready to tell her the truth. I think she could handle it, with the obvious caveat that she cannot tell her five-year-old sister and three younger brothers, who certainly deserve the same level of whimsy and excitement I saw in my firstborn’s eyes at 6 a.m. the morning after she lost her first tooth and discovered a letter written by yours truly with $10 inside. Still one of my proudest writing projects.
I don’t even think I mind shattering this particular bit of childhood because the consequences would be fairly limited. I would bet serious money that she will simply start handing me the teeth directly and asking for the $10 herself. What gives me anxiety is everything else.
Right now, the world is still perfect and exciting and full of fairies for her. Mine feels considerably less so, and some days I have enough trouble dealing with reality myself. I’m not sure why I should be in such a hurry to introduce more of it to her.
The Tooth Fairy interrogation continued until last night, when she asked me while I was washing the dishes to please, seriously, tell her the truth. Once again, thankfully, she got distracted. And it made me think about all the much bigger things we eventually have to tell our kids about.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
