“Mommy, tell me the truth: are you the Tooth Fairy?
That’s the question I got at 6:15 this morning, after my 7-year-old, Julia, found four quarters under her pillow (quarters I only remembered to slip there at 4:35 a.m. when my subconscious woke me from a dream about her losing a top tooth).
Shoot. I wasn’t prepared for this. I stalled with, “What do you mean?”
“Are you the one that put the money under my pillow?”
My face got goofy. “I don’t know what you want me to say…” (As in, are you sure you want to know?)
She stared at me. “Yes or no!”
My face got goofier.
“That’s a yes,” she said.
I shut my bedroom door. “Okay, listen,” I said conspiratorially. “I am–but you can’t say anything to your friends, and you can’t tell Lila,” referring to her 4-year-old sister.
Her eyes bulged and she laughed. “You are?! You’re the Tooth Fairy? I knew it. I knew it!”
And before I could even begin to get sad about my little girl growing up, she said, “Wait. Are you everybody’s Tooth Fairy, or just mine?”
Love it! “No, honey, I don’t have time to be everybody’s Tooth Fairy.”
“So everybody’s parents are their Tooth Fairy?” she clarified.
“Yes. And remember–it’s fun to believe in the Tooth Fairy, so don’t tell your friends, and don’t tell Lila.” We shook on it.
Tell me, everyone who’s been in this position: How long until she connects the dots and asks about Santa? Please tell me there’s time!