I always anticipated this moment. Yet, knowing it was inevitable didn’t lessen the impact. Grief has a way of making itself known, regardless of prior warnings. I’ve come to understand this all too well. Deep down, I hoped that the joys and traditions of my children’s childhood would remain unchanged; that somehow, the experiences we shared would linger a little longer.
But they didn’t.
My father, who passed away over five years ago, held a special title in our family: the Tooth Fairy. It’s a whimsical tale that began over a decade ago when my eldest child, Jack, was just a preschooler, long before illness and heartache changed everything. One day, in class, they had discussed various professions. While some family members held straightforward jobs like police officers or teachers, my father’s role as a dental technician required a bit more explanation.
He crafted dentures and partials for those who had lost their teeth. As I explained this to Jack, his eyes lit up with understanding. “So Grandpa makes teeth for people who lost them! That means he’s the Tooth Fairy!” It made perfect sense to a curious four-year-old. That very evening, I called Dad to share the news of his new role, and he embraced it with laughter.
From that point onward, my children would reach out to him whenever they lost a tooth or faced a dental visit. He became their comforting voice, helping ease their fears and encouraging good dental habits. He was their go-to for tooth-related matters.
But then came cancer, and he was taken from us. Even in death, he retained his Tooth Fairy title. He took the last tooth lost during his lifetime with him, tucked safely in his pocket. The kids believed that he now had wings and a tutu, ready to continue his magical role.
Instead of phone calls, they began leaving him notes, hoping to receive responses from beyond. This summer, my daughter, Lily, lost her final baby tooth, while Jack lost his third. Lily shared a special bond with Grandpa; she was his little cuddlebug. His death struck her the hardest, leaving her with a profound sense of loss. For years, she had held onto the belief that he would always be there as long as she had baby teeth. When she wrote her last note after losing her final molar, I sensed the weight of reality settling in.
Jack, on the other hand, has a different perspective. He was only two when Grandpa passed, so for him, the Tooth Fairy is simply a character, not a cherished memory. This realization hit me hard, forcing me to sit with the truth of his unfamiliarity with my father. I had prepared myself for this moment, yet the reality of it was overwhelming.
While I briefly considered keeping the Tooth Fairy legend alive through stories from Lily and Jack, I recognized that this desire stemmed more from my own grief than from their needs. I can’t let my emotions cloud their understanding of loss. This journey belongs to me, and I must honor it quietly.
Thank you, Dad, for all those years of magic—the silver coins, the special notes, the laughter. You were the greatest Tooth Fairy, and even the best must eventually step back.
This journey of remembrance and letting go is a part of parenting that is often unspoken. For more insights on navigating the complexities of family and loss, consider checking out this guide on home insemination or learn more about fertility resources at Make a Mom. For excellent pregnancy resources, visit CCRM IVF.
In summary, saying goodbye to the Tooth Fairy represents a significant moment in my journey of parenting amid loss. It’s a reminder of the importance of cherishing memories while allowing space for growth and change.