I remember my Dad yanking out my teeth.
That sounds horrible in the re-telling, doesn’t it? He didn’t whip out the pliers or anything but, after two hours of hearing me hem n’ haw about how loose my tooth was or how gross it was feeling, he’d nod in my direction and ask to have a look. By the time I’d opened my mouth to reply, he’d reached in, twisted the (impossibly tiny) sucker, and thwacked it into the palm of my hand.
“Yeah, I’d say that one’s ready,” he’d tell me with a smile.
I’m not as good at toothing as my Dad was.
It doesn’t matter, though, since Nora’s begun losing teeth and I’ve become the woman for the job. (P.J. remains firmly on deck. Oh, I have no doubt he’ll step in and fulfill his duties if I’m ever unable, but let’s remember- this is the guy who, upon seeing a video of his daughter getting her ears pierced, legitimately wanted to punch the tiny woman wielding the piercing gun. When it comes to Nora, I think his motto is: No Pain, No Really, Nora, I’ll Never Allow You To Feel Pain.)
She lost her first tooth during kindergarten snack time. It was exciting and thrilling and insta-popularity-making and she immediately wanted to do it again.
Until her second tooth got loose and she had to do it again.
She told me about the second loose tooth- right next to the first tooth gap and right in front of the two gigantic shark teeth elbowing their way in. She told me about this loose tooth five minutes before bedtime.
“But I don’t want to wiggle it anymore, Mommy, I’m not ready.”
“Okay.”
(Two chapter book pages later.)
“Mommy I need this tooth out I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Okay.”
So I reached for her mouth.
“But don’t touch it!”
“…Okay.”
“I’ll do it, Mom. I can do it. Look, I’ll wiggle it and- I just can’t do it I’m so afraid it’ll hurt but I don’t want it in my mouth!”
And I get it, I do. She comes by her emotional over-thinking honestly. (P.J. and I are both card-carrying members of the FEEEEEEEEELINGS Club.) So I gave her plenty of time to work through those feelings, bedtime be damned.
But half an hour of hemming, hawing, hemming some more, panic crying, frustration crying, stoic outbursts, and angry blame-slinging later, I was ready to whip out the chloroform.
(I didn’t.)
“Nora,” I told her. “I have a great idea. You’re gonna pull out your own tooth now.”
“…I am?”
“Yep. Watch.”
I grabbed a tissue, wrapped it around the (ohmygodsoridiculouslytiny) tooth, and placed her hand on my wrist.
“I’m holding the tooth steady.”
“Okay.”
“And when you’re ready, you’ll wiggle my hand. And I’ll keep holding the tooth.”
“Okay, I can do that, that won’t hurt, I can…”
As she steeled herself with these words, her hand jostled my wrist and I went for it: twisting the tooth clear out of her mouth before she could finish her sentence.
She screamed in shock. And then she screamed in joy.
“I PULLED OUT MY OWN TOOTH!”
“You sure did.”
And then I held her, because she was shaking and mumbling to herself, “I can’t believe I actually did it. It happened and I was so worried and now I have my tooth.”
Part of me wanted to burst out laughing because she was so serious, but part of me wanted to well up with tears because she was so serious.
“How do you feel now?”
She thought for a moment and then quietly said, “I feel brave.”
I tucked her into her bed. (Finally, finally.) We tucked the tooth into her tooth fairy pillow- the same one that my parents used to tuck mine into.
I waited until she was mostly asleep, then brushed the hair from her forehead and whispered, “You’re such a good girl.”
Somewhere in her half-awake, half-dreaming voice she whispered back, “You’re such a good Mommy.”
And in moments like that, I pretty much feel that I am.
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