Last night, conveniently an HOUR AND A HALF past bedtime, my daughter lost her first tooth.
Having a loose tooth was exciting; actually losing it was apparently traumatizing.
her daddy yanked it out so we she would stop making us wiggle it every five minutes it came out, she burst into tears and flew into my arms.
She was inconsolable.
She cried and cried and wailed things like, “I’m just FIVE!”
I figured it out when she looked mournfully at her tooth, now safely ensconced in my traditional Acid-Free, Heirloom-Quality, One of a Kind Tooth Storage Device, aka a zippy sandwich baggy, and sniffled, “I will look at my tooth and remember back when I was a little girl.” **
Ah, to be five and forced to contemplate The Meaning Of Life And The Scariness That Is Growing Up.
I soothed her and petted her and promised I would not make her go apartment hunting the next day; and that as far as I am concerned, she is going to stay with me forever and we will be best friends forever.
Part of me wishes it would come to be true.
Then she must have felt better, because she used the last few tears to try to negotiate me out of calling her “my toothless little old lady.”
I made no such promise.
She said perhaps I could at least say “my PRETTY toothless little old lady.”
Then she asked me to buy her a Dr. Doofenshmirtz doll and went to sleep.
(**yes, I have forbidden her from becoming a telenovella actress)