A convenient truth

My seven-year old, Abigail, lost another tooth this morning. It was hanging by a thread of connective tissue to her gum and caused her great discomfort all week. Worst of all, it prevented her from chewing gum, her favourite pastime.

She chased me round the house all morning with a soggy bit of tissue and finally I stooped to wrap my fingers around the offending chunk of enamel and pulled. A grimace, followed by a bloody spit, and it was all over, bar the excitement of putting the tooth under the pillow and waiting for the Tooth Fairy to arrive with R5 in exchange for the loot.

Now, I am one of those Montessorian mothers who does not encourage too many fairy tales.  I will not allow Santa Clause/Father Christmas/St Nicholas to do for me what I can do myself on Christmas Eve: put the present under the tree and eat the cookies. The Brothers Grimm are always mitigated after the final lie: "And they lived happily ever after." It goes like this:

"Did you enjoy that, Babsi?" I ask, using a well-placed term of endearment.

"Yep," she says, looking distracted. Mine is one of those little girls who prefers jumping up and down on the bed to a bed-time story.

"Of course, it's just make-believe. There's no such thing as a talking wolf or fairies, right?"

"Okay."

There is one exception, however, to all our reality checking. The Tooth Fairy. I did not introduce her/him to our home and consciousness. Abigail did. She found out about her/him from school and a movie featuring Dwayne Johnson. I tried my best to change her mind about her/his existance, but there was something about this that made it a convenient truth: the Tooth Fairy puts cash under your pillow.

Back to this morning. Abigail wraps the bloody tooth in toilet paper and places it next to me. I am on the phone. I acknowledge crumpled toilet paper with the part of my brain not focusing on language. I pick it up and throw it in the not-so-flushed toilet.

What followed can only be described as the joys of motherhood. Abigail was distraught and proceeded to put her hand, followed by her forearm, followed by her braided hair into the toilet to retrieve the tooth. I scream, she screams. I scrub her hands with soap and then apply a generous amount of hand sanitiser.

Ten minutes later the tooth is under her pillow, waiting for a New Year visit from the Tooth Fairy and an earning of R5. This will be spent on Dentyne Sugar Free Strawberry chewing gum, no doubt.

I have my own stash of convenient truths: one being that no matter how much I indulge over Christmas, it will all change on January 1st, when an overdose of discipline and will-power will undoubtedly kick in and I will start my healthiest, slimmest year ever.

Somehow, I know, that unless I make some inconvenient changes, the Tooth Fairy will win this round. She (wink) will definitely be making the rounds this New Year's eve.

Happy New Year everybody!