I dreamt that my tooth fell out. One in the front on the bottom. It had been loose, then it fell out. We were all very excited.
You see, my daughter's trauma over her teeth not falling out continues. In fact, it wasn't so bad until a week ago, the only other girl in her first grade class who hadn't lost a tooth -- well, she lost one. And now my daughter remains.
It does no good to tell her that when she's old, she'll be grateful that her adult teeth have had that much less time to rot in her mouth. That she hasn't used them enough. She asks me to wiggle it for her. She wiggles and wiggles.
She's desperate to lose it, though she's terrified about losing it. She asks if we can go to Papa's house when it's ready to come out, because of the stories I've told her about him pulling my teeth out so gently when we were young. It's hard to explain that he's a plane-ride away, and that I learned all his tricks, and her older brother can tell her that I'm gentle, too.
She will be so glad when it's over. Until then, each day I hear stories about friends and their loose teeth, and their eight big teeth, and their eight cavities.
And I dream that I'm losing my tooth, just to show her that it won't hurt and it won't be so bad.