Most kids live in a blissful world of naivety and magic—until one day they don’t. Inevitably rumors swirl, maybe at school, on the bus or at a friend’s house, and a curious 7-year-old mind ponders one of life’s big questions: Is the Tooth Fairy real?
I remember, at the age of 6, asking my mom if the Easter Bunny had really brought me that cellophane-wrapped pink basket filled with plastic grass, chocolate eggs and a plush rabbit, just like the pre-made baskets I had seen at Roses.
“What do you think?” she said.
“I think it’s you and dad.” I said, half-heartedly.
“You’re right,” she said. “And the same goes for Santa.”
Crushed, I hadn’t made the Christmas connection. Even though I had asked her the question, I wasn’t ready for the answer. I still wanted to believe. I suppressed the Santa part for years, watching my local news station every Christmas Eve to track his sleigh across the nation with the same excitement as my little brother, until I was at least 10.
Fast forward 27 years and I have always fueled flights of fancy with my two daughters. I’ve nibbled Santa’s cookies, left custom letter-pressed envelopes from the Tooth Fairy under pillows, and concocted morning-after stories about how the dog went crazy on the Easter Bunny in the middle of the night, knowing that the moment of truth would eventually come.
So when my daughter asked me if the Tooth Fairy was real on the way to school, clutching an envelope filled with sixteen quarters she had found under her pillow that morning, I surprised myself by going Grinch on the situation. I ignored my inner pixie and repeated mother-daughter history. (Minus the Santa bombshell, of course, because he’s legit.)
“No honey, she’s not real,” I said.
“Mom!” she shrieked. “How could you do this to me?”
Staring out the window, she came up with the only logical retort for a 7-year-old girl—it was my fault.
“The Tooth Fairy hasn’t been coming to our house because you don’t believe,” she said.
True, I thought. But why did the magic have to end for her?
I dropped her off at school, and a sneaking feeling had me seeking affirmation. I called my husband, who has a penchant for straight talk. He would agree with my honest approach, right?
“You did what?” he seethed through the phone. “Why don’t you just tell her that Santa and the Easter Bunny aren’t real too?”
Waxing pragmatic had definitely backfired. I had disappointed my husband and my daughter. To undo the damage, I turned to a time-tested parenting trick for these types of situations—I lied.
“Remember what I told you this morning?” I said when she hopped into to the car later that day. “I was wrong. I always thought daddy was putting money under your pillow, but he wasn’t. It was the Tooth Fairy all along.”
She bought it. The next week my husband and I even had a chance to shore-up my story with hard evidence when our daughter lost another tooth.
“I told you she was real, mom!” she said, bounding out of her room the next morning, waving a crisp ten-dollar bill.
“Ten dollars?” I said, cutting wide eyes toward my husband who was dressing for work. “Wow, the Tooth Fairy must have really felt bad that mommy didn’t believe.”
Well, I believe now. I believe that lies never pay, except in the case of the Tooth Fairy, in which case, they pay big, real big.
About the Author
Jamie Rich is a freelance feature writer covering lifestyle, travel and culture. Her work has appeared in publications such as The Washington Post, Slate and The New York Times Motherlode blog. Jamie moved to Ponte Vedra from London last year with her husband and two young daughters. She blogs at www.jamierich.me about life as a domesticated expatriate, dispatching reviews, tongue-in-cheek stories and travel tips. Jamie has spent most of the past ten years abroad, living in Moscow; Washington, D.C.; Douala, Cameroon; and London. She holds a master’s in journalism from Georgetown University and a bachelor’s in creative writing from Florida State University.
