I am a liar. It’s true. There are lots of little whitelies we tell our children. The night my daughter lost her tooth started offlike any other night. I couldn’t have predicted that I would so readily andhandily rely on fabrication to maintain the sanity of our home. After 2 months of wiggling and jigglingher tiny bean of a tooth, my seven-year-old daughter finally, officially, losther 7< tooth. She had been diligently twisting and turning it formonths, pushing it around with her tongue, wiggling it with her fingers, andeating apples with stunning regularity. Gradually, the tooth had begun todangle, performing acrobatic 180-degree turns, eliciting grimaces and sourexpressions from innocent bystanders.

In a quest for independence, Alex insisted on pulling thetooth all by herself. In the smallbathroom, my husband Michael, my son Caleb, and I all fanatically cheered heron like she was just moments away from a gold medal.

“Twist it to theleft! Twist it to the right!”

“Almost there! Just do it! Just do it!”

In one swift, epic moment, she bravely pulled the danglingtooth with her right hand. From the doorway, I could hear the distinct popping sound teeth make when the lastthread of tissue is disconnected. And my stomach turned more than a little. The sheer force of thedetermined gesture sent the tiny tooth flying from her tiny hand into the greatabyss of the upstairs bathroom. It felt like we were watching the scene unfoldin slow motion, complete with the protracted, drawled scream of “Noooooooo!!!!”The tooth, suspended in the air for what seemed an eternity, was lost uponlanding. The upstairs bathroom haswhite hexagon tile. I immediately knew we were in trouble. Tiny white tooth ontiny white tiles.

Alex started crying hysterically. Deeply worried that thetooth fairy would not come if there were no tooth, she mouthed with squinted, feverish eyes, over and over “I just gotta find it. I just gotta find it…”

Mike,Caleb, Alex and I frantically, painstakingly scoured the bathroom on our handsand knees. We went over every square inch of tile, sink, tub, and rug.

No luck. Alex’s tears started coming faster and I knew full blown hysterical sobswere near.

In a hopeful attempt to assuage her fears, my husbandquipped, "Honey, the tooth fairy knows you lost a tooth, don't worry. Shealways comes, no matter what." She didn't buy it. She looked at himincredulously and cried harder. 
Strike One.

Aware that Mike and I were sort of at fault for themeltdown through our perpetuation of the Tooth Fairy myth, I brieflycontemplated outing myself as the One True Tooth Fairy. “Alex,” I practiced in my head, “Yourdaddy and I have been lying to you for a very long time. There is no tooth fairy.Oh, and Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are whoppers, too. So, stop crying,I’ll give you a buck.” After quickly deciding that option had the potential tobe even more disastrous, it was my turn to take a crack at calming her down. Isaid with my very best mommy-means-business-face, "Alex, really that's enough.Come on, honey. Stop it right now." I stepped back gingerly, hoping myfeeble attempt at discipline had done the trick. In response, 
the tempo of thesobbing sped up and the tone of the crying morphed into a loud shrieking sound.Strike Two.

 

I knew we were on the threshold of total and completedevastation. Bedtime was approaching and unless a miracle happened, ourtwenty-minute tuck in would turn into a ninety-minute ordeal. The trauma inflicted on all partieswould result in a grumpy morning the next day. The grumpymorning would turn into an irritable, cantankerous day. Basically, 48 hours oftotal family misery was at stake.

I was out of ideas. Desperate, I began praying, “God,please, please, PLEASE, let me find the STINKING TOOTH.” On the cusp of a thirdstrike, I suddenly remembered that I still had some of her old teeth from thelast time the tooth fairy visited. Not quite sure what to do with old babyteeth, I had thrown them into a junk drawer that contained other stuff I didn’tknow what to do with. With lightning speed, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed theold tooth and hid it in my palm. I did what any self-respecting, desperatemother who wants to put her kids to bed on time would do. I lied. I mean I liedagain. I had already lied about the existence of the Tooth Fairy. I bent downslowly and pretended to find the tooth on the bathroom floor. I said with alittle too much enthusiasm, “Honey, let’s look one more time on the floor. Ididn’t really look very well behind the toilet……Oh my goodness! Look! I foundit!” I triumphantly held the old tooth up, sucked in my breath, andwaited. Hoping she wouldn’t noticethat the well-dried brownish blood on the tooth in my hand did not match thebright red blood leaking from her gums, I added in a high pitched voice, “Thisis your tooth!” Technically, that wasn’t a lie. It had come from her mouth. Two years ago.

The silence in the bathroom felt thick, weighted down bymy deception. And then, she bought it.

She snatched the tooth from my hand and, with palpablerelief, ran to her bedroom and shoved it underneath her pillow. The tears driedup and the post-sob hiccups eventually subsided. I took a picture of her new,toothless smile, wondering just when the permanent Beaver tooth would breakthrough. Alex and Caleb were inbed on time and the One True Tooth Fairy left a buck under her pillow. And, wenever found the tooth. 

One day, Alex will be able to see through the little whitelies. She’ll live in a world without Tooth Fairies and magic. She won’t be soeasily fooled. It’s a matter of time until the harsher realities of this worldare familiar to her. And, I knowthat time is short. So, for now, for just a little while longer, I’m just finewith being called a liar.