The Ongoing Saga of the Tooth Fairy

There was such a long break since the last activation of the Tooth Fairy in our house that I had almost forgotten the agony and stress that went with it. And then Hal showed me a bloody molar that I extracted for him one evening.

I don’t know if Hal still believes in the Tooth Fairy or if he knows it’s me. But he remembers the ritual. Basically. He put the tooth in a Ziploc bag (easier for me to find than a loose tooth) and put it on the bed. His brother’s bed, actually, which his brother (understandably) found odd. But I think Hal knew that the Tooth Fairy would never find it on his own bed, covered as it is by copious stuffed animals, blankets, books, toys, the real live dog that somehow picks out a place to sleep on it, and a large box that Hal prefers to sleep in.

I suggested we move the tooth to the dresser so his brother didn’t knock it off the bed and tucked him in. An hour or more later, when ready to pass out myself, I opened the door expecting an easy exchange of tooth-in-bag with coins-in-bag. But something about the air in the room made me hesitate. I walked over to the bed and peered into the box perched on the top bunk. No one was moving but I could see the bright glare of his Kindle Fire poorly blocked behind a raised leg.

I did the whole disappointed mommy shtick and took the device from him. He rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head in embarrassment and sorrow at getting caught. I then carefully placed the coins on the dresser, grabbed the tooth, and exited. I smiled a bit at the irony that arguably the least stressful tooth exchange had occurred while the child was awake.

But it left me wondering. What exactly was he thinking when he stayed up late on the night he lost a tooth? Here are my theories:

  1. He had already forgotten that his tooth lay waiting on the dresser.
  2.  He still believes in the Tooth Fairy and assumed that she would wait until he was asleep, no matter how late that might be.
  3. He knows it’s me and hoped the Fire would keep him awake until he caught me in the act but he either thought the box would adequately hide him or he failed to consider better hiding the screen.

Whichever it is, the Tooth Fairy is one of those Catch-22 situations. No one talks about Fight Club. You can’t ask if they still believe because that would be tacit admission that she doesn’t exist. And they are reluctant to tell you they don’t believe out of fear that you will stop giving them money for something as worthless as an old tooth. So we keep pretending. Or at least, that’s what I’m doing. I’m not sure what he’s doing. I haven’t asked.

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The Battle of the Poop

There are small things and there are big things in parenthood. Good and bad. My hope is that in old age, it’s the good that shine the brightest. But there are times in the day-to-day that the bad grab hold and demand your attention. Or your irritation, at least.

Take, for example, the morning after my sweet daughter left for Europe. I entered my shower thinking that, despite the cold weather and long pants I would wear, maybe I’d shave. Only… my razor was missing.

That’s weird, I thought. Did I take it out for some reason? I glanced over at the counter and it wasn’t there. When I got out, I checked my overnight bag from a recent trip. It wasn’t there either, which didn’t surprise me since I knew I hadn’t packed it. You know, winter weather and long pants and all. My mind drifted to my daughter. Surely she didn’t take it with her? She has her own and likes it better.

I asked the menfolk of my household if they knew where it was. They all just shook their heads, looked at me odd for asking, and went about their days. Which I ultimately did as well, thinking about the missing razor only in the mornings as my eyes lit upon its empty holder during my shower. Just one of the minor irritations of being a parent and thus, not the master of my own stuff.

That is, until I found myself in the children’s bathroom early one morning with my eyes watering and a bandanna wrapped tightly around my face. It was then, in such a miserable state, that I saw my wayward razor sitting in their shower. She must have “borrowed” it, I thought to myself, backing out to the relative safety of the hallway. Hers was probably already packed. I bet she planned to return it when done. They always plan, but never do.

The thoughts were a delay tactic, I knew, and eventually I resumed my odious task – one of the larger and much more objectionable irritations of parenthood.

I had managed to forget about this task until that morning when I had opened the door to see which boy had gotten up without my knowing, and been greeted not by an indignant child unhappy about the door opening, but instead by a smell so strong that I quickly shut the door. And remembered.

It was late the night before. The boys and I were staying up a little late because it was Spring Break so why not? But finally, I had admonished Hal, the youngest, to use the bathroom, brush his teeth, and get ready for bed.

He had returned quickly with his nose scrunched up and a small, nervous smile on his face. With a little giggle, he said, “The toilet is clogged!”

“When did that happen?” I asked, my eyes heavy with sleep and my shoulders now sagging. I looked around the room.

“It wasn’t me,” said Daryl, only momentarily diverting his attention from Fort Nite on the PS4 to me.

“Well it wasn’t me!” claimed Hal, a little too defensively and definitely too cheerfully.

“It didn’t just clog itself,” I muttered and headed into the bathroom.

“It really stinks in there!” Hal called out helpfully.

I lifted the toilet lid and what greeted me was of a magnitude unbelievable. With a certain amount of wishful thinking, I pushed the “big flush” button on our high efficiency toilet. It didn’t flush. Instead, I gagged and choked and covered my mouth as I watched through watery eyes all the brown chunky water, a log surely too big to have exited my young child’s rump, and reams of toilet paper swirl dangerously close to the rim.

I closed the toilet lid. I hurried from the room. I shut the door. Not my proudest moment, but it had been a long week. A tiring one.  Nearly a full work week covered over just three days, on the tail end of a 62 hour work week, and a long trip to take my husband to the airport very early that morning. Despite a couple of short naps that day, I was not ready to fight the battle of the poop. In my exhausted state, I declared it a task that could wait for morning.

And morning had come. And with it the fresh state of forgetfulness… until I had opened that door. I tried another hopeful flush. I gagged again. I left the room. Again. But this time to plan because even the most irresponsible of parents can surely not leave a toilet full of sh*t to stink up a room and eventually the entire house.

I found a box and a stick. The toilet paper, I had decided, needed to exit the bowl via the hole at the top instead of the hole at the bottom. I found a bandanna and wrapped it securely around my face. I entered the boys’ room. They looked up and did not bat an eye that their mother approached like a bandit robbing a stage coach.

“I have a task for you,” I said to Hal. “Get your shoes on. I’m going to be transferring some of the contents of the toilet into a box and then I want you to carry the box out to the burn pile. Do you want a bandanna to cover your nose?”

He nodded. Quietly. Like he wished there was a way out of this task but perhaps knowing that if his dad was home, it’d likely be Hal, and not his loving mother, who would be manually unclogging the toilet. He didn’t have the worst task and he knew it.

It was when I entered the room again with stick and box in hand that I noticed the razor. It struck me that if I didn’t have children, I wouldn’t have a clogged toilet and my razor would be where it should be.

Of course, I’d also be at work because what would be so special about Spring Break then? I’m all the richer, and wiser, and kinder, and more patient, for having children. But there are moments – like when I’m standing in a stinking room looking at my stolen razor through watering eyes – when I feel the price paid for those no-longer-little bundles of joy.