TAKING ON THE TOOTH FAIRY

Parents learn early the varying cries of their offspring. I think I read somewhere it is some sort of very natural and primal instinct to recognize the cry of our own child from a chorus of others in say a jungle or the toy aisle of a Wal-Mart. We learn to decipher the difference between an “I’m hungry” cry, an “I’m scared” cry, and an “I’m pretty sure I severed my carotid artery” cry. There is also the most common “I’m entitled” cry. However, the cry parents dread more than any other — the cry that manages to hit staggering decibels in our souls — is the cry I found myself waking up to this morning. My daughter’s wails from the other side of the house jolted me out of a deep sleep. I knew the reason for the cry even as it stormed and tumbled into my room in a heap of vicious bedhead and tears.

“Mom-meeee! The tooth fairy never came!” she wailed.

It was the worst cry of them all — the “I’m the victim of a colossal parental fail” cry.

In my own defense, I have three six-year-olds in one house. Meaning, with the sheer number of teeth and the amount of blood flying out of mouths, my home could be an NHL hockey rink. I am running low on bleach and quarters these days, which is why the last tooth fairy deposit consisted of three nickels and a throat lozenge. The truth of the matter is, when it comes to the tooth fairy game, my heart just isn’t in it. I’m completely unsettled. When I think about this recent meteor shower of baby teeth, I find myself oscillating between wanting to dropkick the creator of the tooth fairy and wanting to knit her a teeny-tiny tooth fairy sweater.

“Do you want to pull it?” my husband asked last night. My daughter’s head was back, her eyes were wide, and with my husband’s fingers in her mouth, it was like watching the Fishing Network when the fisherman is extracting a stubborn hook from a fish’s mouth. Gross.

“Nope. I’m good,” I answered.

“Why don’t you want to pull out her tooth, Mom?” my children asked from the gallery of spectators.

Why don’t I want to pull the tooth?

Well, maybe I don’t want to pull it because my fingers are still numb from the vats of Orajel I applied on your gums to grow that tooth. Maybe I don’t want to pull it because I slept roughly four-and-a-half hours in 2007 while those baby teeth slowly and painfully surfaced. Maybe it just seems weird and annoying that those baby teeth — the ones I forfeited my exercise regimen and personal hygiene for — would now just start popping from your mouths like you are some sort of freaky PEZ dispensers.

Maybe I don’t want to pull teeth out because — guess what? — new teeth are going to grow in their place. These teeth are actually going to need to be brushed more than once a week because these teeth will actually count. Of course, you won’t brush these new teeth and because Obamacare won’t cover cavities, I’ll be canceling my hair appointments to cover the cost of your fillings. My roots will grow gray, and your new teeth will grow sideways and upside down. An orthodontist named Dr. Seuss will then construct elaborate mouth devices out of paperclips that I will end up selling blood on Etsy to pay for. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to pull your baby teeth out, all right? Sigh.

Or maybe I find the entire process of cutting roots and the pooling of blood a little too familiar — a little too reminiscent of the day we met face to face when you were so very tiny and so very in need of me. Maybe I’m not ready to lose those baby teeth markers of your innocence and toddlerhood. Maybe I’m not quite ready to see the way those missing teeth will leave holes, spaces, changing your familiar smile that I have grown to depend on. And maybe I am just not ready for the gaps in your life — the ones I will no longer fill.

Her tooth was out before I could answer. Blood filled her grin and there was a look of triumph in her eyes.

As I went in search of bleach and quarters, my sons circled my daughter congratulating her, inspecting the little baby tooth floating in her palm and remarking, “Wow, you never even cried!”

Despite the blood and pain, she never cried. Maybe, after six years of deciphering my daughter’s cries, it is now time to start learning her silences. Sigh.

Or maybe tonight, rather than watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, I will get my act together and remember to scrounge up a couple of dimes and a Tic Tac.