Dear Tooth Fairy

The teacher in charge of Nibble and Scribble yesterday read a letter from a woman to a doctor she had met years before she wrote the letter. She wrote the doctor to say thank you for providing her with some momentary comfort the day she had given birth to a child that died a few hours later. So we were then asked to write a positive or negative letter to someone who had briefly been part of our life but had left a lasting influence. There were countless possibilities for my letter, but I settled on this one. Wouldn't it make a lovely kids' booook (as Strongbad says)? (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFFBj7LFefE)

Dear Tooth Fairy,

If you had met me last year when I was six, you would have known I was your biggest fan. My first loose tooth was a paragon of excellence, an impeccably clean, fragile, little grape-nut sized specimen. Of course, you already knew this because you kept a close eye on every dental ritual in town. You watched my mom rub down my gums and teeth with a washcloth right before I skipped off to the dentist’s office. You saw me flash a smile for the dentist’s big Polaroid camera numerous times, and the dental assistants tacking my pictures to the “Look, no cavities!” bulletin board in the hall. You would have been proud of me, gazing into the dentist’s treasure box and pulling out any item I wanted from a secret stash revealed only to the worthy ones.

I knew that wherever you were, you were watching, a miniature version of God and Santa. Except you have teeny wings, a magic wand, and fairy dust that would turn kids’ teeth into shiny new quarters, or if the tooth was extra clean, maybe a crisp dollar bill. Yep, I knew everything about you too.

Or so I thought.

After my first tooth fell out, I put it in a special place, in an empty vitamin bottle. I didn’t even shake it to hear it rattle around inside because I didn’t want to damage my tooth before you got to see it up close. Getting ready for bed, I dressed in my favorite pair of Ghost Buster pajamas, the blue ones with the red stripe down the legs, and my fuzzy bunny slippers (I wanted to leave a good impression). I even brushed the gnarled curls out of my hair before standing on my bunny tip toes to check out my new gap-toothed grin in the mirror one more time. And then I emptied the vitamin bottle and gently placed the tooth in a nest of toilet paper under my pillow. I fell asleep smiling, wondering if I would catch you at just the right moment in the middle of the night.

But in the morning the tooth was still there. Not a single penny was left in its place.

Maybe it was just a busy night. Maybe you couldn’t find my house because the stars weren’t out. Maybe where I lived in Alaska was too cold for you.

That’s what I decided, it was just too cold, and maybe the frost would have made your wings dysfunctional, like when I stay outside too long and my eyelashes get feathery and white and it’s hard to see. I guess I didn’t see that coming, because I thought I knew all about you. It’s okay. I forgive you.

But now I am seven and my second tooth is loose. Will you please, please, please come this time?

Thanks.

P.S. my vocabulary is above average for my age, so may I have an extra quarter for being precocious?