Tooth fairy

 

I find there is some sort of, I don't know, synergy? poetry? irony? in the events of the last 24 hours.

First, Sammy lost his first tooth. He has been working on it, detailing the pain and the drama for us hourly, discussing it, and agonizing over it for about a week. (His teacher even sent me an email last week ask me if I could take himto the dentist to have it removed since it seemed to be causing him so much pain. When I picked him up from school and asked him about it that day, he seemed completely oblivious). So, after so much ado, on Sunday, Chad and I were in the kitchen when suddenly we heard a screech from upstairs, followed by the pounding of little feet and cries of "Dad! Dad!!" Such events are relatively common (screeching, pounding, yelling) so neither of us reacted much. Sam raced into the room.

"Daddy! I lost my tooth!" he cried, ecstatic. (Why Dad? You ask. Quite simply, Daddy Duck handles tooth removal at our house. I get the creepy shivers just thinking about it). His little face was all aglow with the grown up reality of it all. It was one of those magical mama moments. After all the obligatory congratulating, hugging, tooth fairy musings, and picture taking, we all went back to our previous activities.

Cut to 10p. Sammy is fast asleep, his tooth safely secured in an empty baby food container and tucked under his pillow. The big girls are snoring (literally--we've got a bit of a cold). And the queen is wailing and waving at her fire engine red cheeks. After a dose of Tylenol, I stagger downstairs to find Chad (as usual in these late evenings) huddled in front of his lap top. He looks up and extends his arms. He has become increasingly more generous in the evenings with each baby. He willingly takes them and puts them to sleep when they resist a reasonable bed time (say, prior to 10p). And, especially with Lucy, he has revealed himself to be every bit as effective as Mama Duck at coaxing some z's out of reluctant little ducklings.

Not last night. At midnight, I heard him tiptoe into the room and gently place the queen in her crib. At approximately 12:01, renewed wailing ensued. My turn. The queen and I went down to catch up on our History channel and drink some milk. We also went ahead and consumed a pile of mindless sugar and carbohydrates, toddled around checking out books, toys, and blankets, and, around 2a, eventually collapsed with exhaustion, clutching lambie between us.

Now for the symmetry. My little boy duck, the one whose first lost tooth rested innocently beneath his curly head, was the absolute worst teether in the house. I spent countless hours pacing the floor with that little man, and, as he was much more discriminating as to whose care he would tolerate (can you say mom-only-mom-always-mom) and the fact that he breastfed nearly to age 2, I know that I spent hours on end soothing a sad little boy while each and every pearly white ground its way painfully through his poor swollen gums. Every. Single. Tooth. Last night felt so familiar--the late night sleep-deprivation buzz, the unpredictable, sleepless baby, the desperation-acceptance-desperation cycle of middle of the week middle of the night frustration, the unexpected, sporadic baby grins, and the inevitable ticking away of the precious midnight hours. Oh yes, this is a well worn path for Mama Duck.

And yet, it feels like a heartbeat ago I was comforting the big big boy in that photo. How can the cranky baby boy of my memory be the independent little man now dreaming tooth fairy dreams? If I blink will the little brown eyed baby queen in my arms be full of kindergarten stories and losing these teeth we're staying up all night to cut right now? (in the words of Steve Martin in Cheaper by the Dozen: "Stop blinking. Enough with the blinking").

It is for this reason that I kind of take every single tooth personally--be it lost or triumphantly "found". I sort of feel like I earn each and every one of them. One way or another