APPARENTLY, MY SON THE RIVER’S skepticism does not extend to mythical creatures who claim lost teeth. Or who provide cash.
We came home Saturday night (date night! date night! whoo-hoo!) to a tired babysitter and a bloody paper towel. The tooth that the River has been worrying for weeks popped out in the middle of his third not-quite-ripe pear of the day (he won’t eat veggies, but you can’t keep him away from fruit; my old pediatrician thought that was just fine, when he was 3; I’m not so sure she’d approve now, but I keep trying). It was under his pillow the sitter informed me, wrapped up in (clean) paper.
In the past, the Tooth Fairy has left currency sprinkled with fairy dust (aka Martha Stewart Crafts glitter) and elaborate notes that were also sparkled up; they’re meant to be from a fairy, after all. It was after 11 (our usual bedtime: 9:30; pathetic, I know) and given the boy’s recent lack of belief in the Great Pumpkin, I figured he was probably wise to the ways of the Tooth Fairy, too. I wasn’t going to shatter the illusion with no reward, but nor was I going to get super-crafty on T.F.’s behalf. I wrote a big red heart on a piece of paper, signed it “T.F.” and wrapped it around three $1 bills, retrieved the (indeed, carefully wrapped and taped) tooth, and called it a night.
The next morning at 6, a very snuggly 8-year-old clambered into our bed. “The Tooth Fairy came, Mama. I lost my tooth last night!” “How much did she leave you?” I managed to mumble. “Three dollars!”
Belief, it seems, has a price. At least it’s affordable.
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