Lament of the Tooth Fairy

         I walked in the house at around six; the dogs greeted me in their usual tail wagging, whimpering-to-be-fed and we-need-to-go-out sort of way. I put Gunsil (my Miniature Pinscher) on his leash and let Pennie (my mini-Dachshund) out the back door. After they completed their respective transactions, we went back inside for feeding time. My eight-year-old daughter stopped me.

         "Guess what?" she questioned.

         "What?"

         "Guess."

         "I have no idea."

         "Just guess!"

         I hesitated, then said what I always did in these kinds of situations: "You want me to give you a 'tick', right?"

         "NO, DAD!"

         I knew that's not what she was after, but it was fun to tease her. I got the word "tick" (short for "tickle") from my dad. He offered my daughter many a "tick" over the years and I was just keeping tradition alive, or something like that. Actually, it was just funny to see my daughter's reaction. She didn't like "ticks" or being asked about them.

         "My tooth fell out," she said proudly, showing me the empty space in her gums.

         "Wow, a molar," I said. "What do you figure the tooth fairy will give you for that?"

         "At least a dollar!" she exclaimed.

         "At least, huh?"

         "Yep," she said, and then scampered off to play PS2 or Game Cube or something.

         The night was typical; we ate, I washed dishes, we watched TV until about 9:00, then my wife and daughter hit the sack. I had a beer or two and relaxed on the couch. Unfortunately, I relaxed too much, because when I awoke, it was already 4:45 A.M. - fifteen minutes past when I normally woke up.

         I slapped on a pot of coffee, then flew into the shower and was ready to go in record time. I was out the door when I remembered my daughter's tooth and its "market value" to the tooth fairy. Opening my wallet, I saw only two tens, a twenty and a five. I had no singles. I was in a quandary: if I gave up the five, I set a precedent for the remainder of my daughter's baby teeth. Luckily, the front teeth had fallen out a year earlier. Those were the pricey ones, at the time at least. The tooth fairy really hadn't established a value system for teeth, but I knew the fronts were big-ticket items. If I gave more for molars than I did for fronts, the balance would be thrown. That, and I could easily go broke dishing out fives for molars. There were more than two of them.

         Since I was running late for work, a decision had to be reached. I took the five and headed into her bedroom, where my girl was sound asleep. I reached under the pillow, trying to maintain an air of secrecy and fished around for my, I mean, the tooth fairy's prize. When my hand found its target, I pulled the tooth out and replaced it with the cash. My daughter barely stirred.

         I drove to work with the tooth in my pocket and came home that night as usual. My daughter greeted me at the door, five-dollar-bill in hand.

         "Look what the tooth fairy left!"

         "Wow, five bucks," I said in mock-surprise. "Maybe I should start pulling my own teeth out if the tooth fairy is paying five bucks a piece for them."

         My daughter looked at me with a seriousness in her eyes that I'd never seen before. "You're the tooth-fairy, Dad. I was awake when you left the money under my pillow this morning."

         I had no defense, but offered up what I could - feeble as it was. She wasn't buying it. The only thing she wanted to know was what I did with the teeth. She'd lost quite a few by then and wondered what her mother and I did with them. I told her that we kept the first one she lost, the first front tooth and that we intended on keeping the one she'd lost last night, as it was her first lost molar.

         She wrinkled up her nose and asked, "Why?"

         "Because they're special," I replied. I spent the next half-hour explaining to my little girl why her baby teeth were special. They were reminders of things we tend to forget about during the hustle and bustle of everyday life. They were memories. They were life.

         I don't know if what I said that day really mattered to her or not. She seemed O.K. with my explanation before running off to play PS2 or Game Cube or whatever.

         I see her today, the day of her twelfth-birthday party and I see a young lady, growing older and more independent with each passing moment. Sometimes I long for the days of the tooth fairy, I suppose selfishly, never wanting the inevitable: Never wanting her to leave.