#33: The Tooth Fairy Cometh

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I hear a commotion from where I stand at the kitchen sink. There is a scurry of feet, a pounding at the steps, and then a few quick taps from one excited little hand.

I look down to find a bouncing H. His mouth is open wide, and he points urgently to his two front lower incisors.

“They’re wiggly!” he shouts and then bounces some more.

“They are?!” I say. “Well, buddy, that’s great!” I ask him to stop hopping so I can check out his teeth for myself. Sure enough, they’re as wiggly as worms.

I’m happy for two reasons. First, my kindergartener—who walked at 10 months and spoke full sentences by his first birthday—is one of the last kids in his class to drop a few pearly whites. The delay has turned into a point of stress for my kiddo; lately, I’ve caught him with a furrowed brow and two plier-like fingers in his mouth. Often.

I’m also excited because I’ve never played the role of Tooth Fairy. It smacks soundly of a new 36×37 assignment. I’m thankful for that because it will replace what was supposed to be assignment #33 – Learn to Change a Tire.

H pokes through one of our many “junk” drawers and pulls out the Tooth Fairy pillow my mom gave him a few months ago. “I can finally use this!” he says, flashing a smile that will one day soon be two teeth short.

~*~

Now, I don’t know about you, but some of the people I know get competitive about certain things, like where they went on their last spa vacation, or what luxury car they plan to buy this summer. The habit extends all the way down the rank and file, because some parents in H’s class have forked over $20 per tooth, and their kids have talked about it with their friends. “That’s preposterous,” I think. “They’re baby teeth, for crying out loud.” And besides all that, H has 20 teeth to lose. Do we really need to invest $400 in this enterprise, when a $20 total sounds much more intelligent?

I take the question to my friends via facebook: “How much coin is the Tooth Fairy dropping these days?” I ask. My friends give reasonable answers: One to two dollars seems to be the going rate.

I dwell and dwell and dwell on this. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t, but look at it this way: If I take the reasonable route, will H come home and ask why the Tooth Fairy gave him $1, while Joe received a cool, green Jackson? If yes, what answer will I give—that the Tooth Fairy donated the other $19 to his college fund?

So I dwell some more. In fact, I dwell so much that I do something really stupid.

“I ran into Scott at the store,” I tell GB. “I told him H has two loose teeth, and asked him his opinion on the going Tooth Fairy rate. He said he gave his kids $20 for each tooth. I told him I thought that was crazy!”

I notice a strange look cross GB’s face. Then I remember where I am and what I’m doing: standing at the boys’ bathroom sink, helping H brush his tiny chompers.

Oh no.

H looks at me quizzically. “$20 per tooth?” he asks.

I give him a hug to hide my face while I back pedal. “That was a long time ago…” I say eventually. “Mr. Scott’s kids are teenagers now. I don’t think the Tooth Fairy gives away that much change anymore. You know. Because of the Recession.”

I look at GB who shakes his head and laughs. “Good work,” I tell myself. “You’ve just added another idiot move to your growing collection.”

~*~

We spend the next few days doing everything we can think of to extract the wigglier of the two teeth. H takes to apples. Steak. Hard candy. Rigorous brushing. In the end, GB takes matters into his own hands—literally. It’s a quick and painless yank, and H is ecstatic.

He slides the tooth into the pocket of the Tooth Fairy pillow then places it under the cool side of his blue and red pillow case.

“You might not want to shove it under so far,” I say. “I’ll bet the Tooth Fairy is about Tinkerbelle’s size; the pillow might be hard for her to lift.”

H nods appreciatively at my advice and slides the tiny pillow to the edge of the bed.

“I should go to sleep!” he says. “I don’t want to be awake when she gets here!”

“Good thinking,” I say.

“You should get to sleep, too, Mama,” he says. “I don’t want you to ruin this for me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I say.

Fifteen minutes later, my boy is in Snoozetown. Already he has turned away from his pillow to assist the transaction. Carefully, I swipe the tooth for the cash. When I retreat from his room on my tiptoes, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

In the morning, I wake to find H snuggled warmly against my side. He’s reluctant to open his eyes until I remind him about his nighttime visitor. He rushes to his room, casts aside all pillows and blankets and finds two gold $1 coins where his tooth used to be.

Based on his new jack-o-lantern smile, it is exactly enough.

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Side Story: Big Day for Gus!

My dad, O, H and my mom

When I was a little girl, my dad’s voice was my alarm clock. I’d hear him belting out a song from the shower just below my childhood bedroom.

Up in the morning out on the job
Work like the devil for my paaaaaay
And that lucky old sun has nothing to do
But roll around heaven all daaaaaay

He has the nicest baritone, and he still uses it to make himself laugh. When I still lived at home, he sang the silliest songs while making coffee. I’d chuckle my way down the steps.

At night, he’d come home, shout a cheerful hello and pull off his tie on the way upstairs. My brother and I would creep into his room and say, “Daddy, make your feet smoke!” He’d raise an eyebrow and rub his stocking feet together until a puff of foot powder snaked into the air. “I worked so hard, my feet are on fire.” he’d deadpan, and we’d laugh all over ourselves.

When I was a teenager, he told me it was time to take a class in music appreciation. (It didn’t matter that I’d studied classical piano and choral music for years.) We spent the evening listening to Ravel’s Bolero, Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and some Billy Joel for good measure. He’d punctuate the music with “Listen to those horns!” “Here come the drums.” And, “Those speakers sound great!”

In fact, he always did—and still does—have a thing for speakers. He likes to show them off at Christmas parties, and he’s quite protective of them. A few years ago, he searched the house for a few small missing items and found them stuffed in his subwoofers—which had apparently become my older son’s makeshift toy box.  My dad thought that was hilarious, but gently made it clear that speakers do not a toy box make.

My dad loves to garden. When I was little, he let me water his rose bushes while he weeded the other beds. “Just give them a nice, long drink,” he’d say, and when I’d ask him how long, he’d say, “Until they stop looking thirsty.” Now, when my boys ask to water our roses, we have the same conversation.

At Christmas and on his birthday, when I ask him what he wants, he waves me off with a “Nothing!” and launches into George Carlin’s old “Stuff” routine.

We usually buy him grilling utensils, stacks of non-fiction, or a subscription to The New York Times. Today, on his 71^st birthday, I’m writing him a post to say I love you, Big Guy. Have a very happy day.

(P.S. Don’t worry, The New York Times will be there in the morning, too.)

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#12: Into the Wild (Part I)

Third time’s a charm, dontcha know.

They had started to wear on me—those twice-failed attempts at completing this assignment—because the underlying concept was just so simple:

• Go somewhere with trees.
• Set up a tent.
• Have long sticks for roasting stuff.
• Fall asleep under copious, copious stars.

Then there was rain that first time.

And then there was trick rain (and lots of soul searching) that second time.

But finally, there was this time. And this time was great. It was also, in many ways, not so great. (In a way, that was great, too.)

I think the best thing to do then is throw down some photos of the truly great parts, and wait until tomorrow to explain the uglier side of the trip.  (Updated 9/7 – Part II)

Part I – The Good

We set up camp on a private campground just outside Mohican State Park in Loudonville, OH, about 1 1/2 hours Northeast of Columbus. It promised all the amenities: canoeing, fishing, hiking, hot showers. If you think that last one is cheating on the whole wilderness experience, it’s not. Because I say so.

Columbus = Point A; Mohican State Park = Point B

We didn’t spend much time at camp. (I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow.) Instead, we spent a lot of time exploring the area. We found trees, for instance. Trees by the millions.

We also saw things we didn’t expect to see up close. Like this:

And this:

And this:

It was too cold to canoe, so we decided to go fishing at this quiet little bend in the Mohican River.

The fish weren’t biting, so we caught a few leaves.

See? Good stuff. Great weekend. Little boys (and big boys, too) were made for camping.

Now, you can read Part II; there’s a real underbelly to the camping scene, and I think it would behoove you to know about it.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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