Wednesday, September 26, 2012


Gather round, children, I have a story to tell.  While a tale of joy, wonder and beauty, it mostly is a story about why I never will truly be able to "grow up."

It's about why I still believe in the Tooth Fairy.

It's not a story I like telling people because they think I'm crazy.  So that's why I'm publicizing it on this blog.

When I was young, just the wee age of about ten or so, I lost one of my teeth.  It wasn't the first tooth, nor was it the last.  It probably was slightly painful, and I imagine I got quite "freaked out," per se, before the actual loss.  I don't really remember, but I digress.

I discovered the truth about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Santa, etc. when I was in second grade (thanks to sitting in the back of the school bus, where I actually learned a lot about life).  So when the Tooth Fairy didn't come the first night of this particular tooth, I was able to gently remind the "Tooth Fairy" to come by that night.  A couple of forgetful nights passed (it was a hectic week) until the one night when I found one whole dorrah under my pillow.  I ran to thank my mom the Tooth Fairy for the dollar.  She told me in all honesty that it wasn't her and that it must have been Dad.

So I ran to thank Dad.

He told me in all honesty that it wasn't him and that it must have been Mom.  I then quickly recounted the past three minutes to him.  Baffled, he followed me to their bedroom to talk to Mom about it.  Neither knew who did it!  They both honestly said they didn't do it, and they were just as confused as I was.  Unless they both were hiding it--which I don't think they were (what motives would they have, since they knew I knew?)--the Tooth Fairy truly visited our house.

This is why I'm still a believer in the Tooth Fairy.

*Me in monkey form, never growing up*

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