Yesterday, Emme came into my room and stood before me, “Here Mom, look what I’ve got.” And with that, she handed me a small square of toilet tissue, neatly folded.
I should have been fearful. This is the child most likely to present me with a dead cockroach.
But she was far too somber. I unwrapped the tiny tissue square, and there in the middle, lay a small white tooth.
What? Where were the hysterics? The loud languishing moans of pain for the certain death that a tooth extraction would bring? The blood spattered reams of Puffs laying about the bathroom?
Quite out of character, there before me stood an nearly 9 year old, calmly holding out a recently pulled and rinsed baby tooth in a square of Charmin.
I supposed she was becoming an old pro at this tooth losing business, when she went into the kitchen, pulled out a baggy, deposited the incisor inside, then labeled and dated her own baby tooth.
Then last night, long after I tucked her into bed with her beloved Puppy Dawg and accompanying yellow thread bare blanket, I went to reach under her pillow to retrieve the baggied tooth.
It wasn’t there.
I performed a quick search of the house to see where she might have stashed the tooth. I found it on top of my “in box.”
My “in box” is a painted wooden bowl in the kitchen where all incoming receipts and bills to be paid are placed.
I guess she is just cutting out the middle man.
I considered leaving her a check on the counter.
But instead, fished out a crisp one dollar bill, and slipped it under the pillow which held her sleeping curly head.
The toothfairy will not go quietly.
Like many other Americans in this sluggish economy, I’m hanging onto my job by my badly chipped fingernails.