Max is losing his teeth. Five, so far. He looks even cuter than usual. Our babysitter, Linnette, has been joking about getting him dentures. Only I don't have a single one of those teeth. Max has been swallowing them.
It happened last night before my eyes. I was helping Max brush his teeth, and all of a sudden there was blood on the toothbrush; I looked in his mouth and saw a gap in his lower jaw where a little tooth used to be. Only it was nowhere to be found. Max has oral-motor issues, and isn't able to spit out a tooth or notice there's one floating around in his mouth.
I can vividly recall the thrill of a loose tooth when I was Max's age; I wiggled out a few in my day. And I remember the exciting anticipation of a visit from The Tooth Fairy, who'd leave me a whole dollar in exchange for my paper-towel wrapped tooth. Last night, I got a little bummed out. Bummed that I didn't have one of Max's teeth to preserve as a memory of his childhood. Bummed that Max wasn't going to experience The Tooth Fairy—not just because he didn't have a tooth to leave under his pillow, but also because he doesn't get the concept of a Tooth Fairy. Not yet, anyway.
Then I got a grip. I was doing it again, projecting visions of my own childhood onto Max. I've written before about wishing Max could lick lollipops and jump on a pogo stick, the joys I experienced. Thing is, he's having a different kind of childhood—one that's just as happy as mine was, if not more. He doesn't need a visit from The Tooth Fairy because he is perfectly content without her. (Is it un-p.c. to assume it's a her?)
"Max! You lost a tooth!" I said. "Say 'Aaahhh.' Say 'Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.'"
He giggled and said "Aaaahhhhh." I got inside his mouth with a tissue and stopped the bleeding.
Then I grabbed a few of his stuffed animals and made them kiss his jaw. I kept saying "Buh-bye, tooth!" He thought that was funny, too.
Guess The Tooth Fairy is out of a job at our house.
Photo by Peter Miller
