I always knew this moment would arrive. It’s a bizarre comfort, knowing something is coming, yet it doesn’t make it any easier. Grieving is a peculiar beast, and advance notice doesn’t soften the blow. I spent more than a few days in denial about the inevitable. A part of me clung to the fantasy that my kids would experience childhood similarly to how I did, that the magic would linger. But, of course, it hasn’t.
My father, who passed away over five years ago, was our family’s Tooth Fairy. It’s a whimsical tale. He earned that title 11 years ago when my oldest child, then in preschool, began to wonder about the jobs of family members. While some relatives had straightforward jobs—policeman, firefighter, accountant—Dad’s work as a dental technician was a bit more complex. I did my best to explain it, and before I knew it, my son had connected the dots: Grandpa made teeth, so he must be the Tooth Fairy! Simple logic for a curious four-year-old.
That evening, I called Dad to share his new title, and he burst into laughter, embracing his role with gusto. From then on, whenever the kids had loose teeth or dental visits, they’d eagerly reach out to him. He was their go-to for calming nerves before procedures and teaching them the importance of flossing. They’d call him first when a tooth was lost.
Then cancer came along, stealing him from us. But he retained his Tooth Fairy title, even taking the last tooth he’d seen tucked in his shirt pocket when he left us. The kids rationalized that he’d simply sprout wings and don a tutu in the afterlife, making perfect sense to their young minds. Instead of phone calls, they began leaving notes under their pillows, hoping for a reply.
This summer, a significant change unfolded. My middle child, who shared a special bond with Grandpa, lost her final baby tooth. She’d always believed that as long as she had baby teeth, he would be nearby. But when she tucked that last molar beneath her pillow and left a note, I sensed the reality of her loss hadn’t fully settled in yet. She’s in such a rush to grow up that she sometimes overlooks what she’s leaving behind. I won’t be the one to remind her of that bittersweet transition.
A few days later, my younger son lost his third tooth. He’s always been a late bloomer, holding onto his baby teeth longer than most. As he tucked his tooth under his pillow, I realized for him, the Tooth Fairy is just that—a mythical figure. He was only two when Grandpa passed, so his memories are a patchwork of stories and photographs. He’ll never remember my dad.
The weight of this realization hit me hard. I had known it was coming, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality. My youngest, born after my father’s death, will only know him through tales and memories we share. For a fleeting moment, I considered keeping the Tooth Fairy tradition alive by having my older kids share their stories, desperately wanting to maintain that connection to my father. But that would be for me, and I can’t project my grief onto them.
So, quietly, I’ll let my father go once more. This farewell is mine, not theirs.
Thank you, Dad, for all the magical moments—silver dollars, whimsical letters, and the joy you brought into our lives. You were the best Tooth Fairy ever, but even legends must eventually retire. Love you always.
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In summary, the journey of saying goodbye to cherished traditions tied to loved ones can be challenging but necessary for healing. Embracing the memories while allowing space for growth is essential in moving forward.