Tooth Fairy

I have a vague recollection of when I was first visited by the Tooth Fairy after losing one of my bottom incisors somewhere around 6 years of age.  Having no older brothers or sisters to spoil it, the concept of the tooth fairy as told to me by my parents was exciting, what with the idea I could trade my no longer useful tooth for cold hard cash and all.  I placed the tooth under my pillow before I went to sleep that night and awoke the following morning to find a dime where the tooth had been stowed.  Ten cents was a good amount of money to a 6 year old in 1959, enough to buy two nickel candy bars.  Dentists today would cringe at the idea but that was the thinking of a 6 year old in 1959.  I continued the tradition with an appropriate bump up in compensation for my children.

Now, I've done the research.  Most things today cost roughly 10 times more, on average, than they did in 1959.  Cars were priced from $2,000 to $4,000; Average homes were $30,000;  A postage stamp was 4 cents;  A loaf of bread about 25 cents.  Some of the things we buy are nearly 20 times more.  For instance, a gallon of gasoline in 1959 clicked over at 25 cents; that nickel candy bar costs about a buck today.

Given the level of confidence I had in my research and wanting to appear to be a magnanimous Grandpa knowing I was in direct competition with the dentine nymph I set the standard with my grandchildren that I would provide compensation to each of them for the loss of their first tooth at the rate of 5 genuine U.S. Dollars.  In 2007 Sydney met the requirement and Papa forked over the requisite 5 bucks.  Emily followed a year later and then Tanner a year after that.  In each case I kept my word.  All of them seemed more than satisfied with the remuneration that remained consistent and fair.  After all, it was 50 times what I earned for my first traumatic tooth loss experience.  Usually when I turned over the Half-Sawbuck I was met with excited laughter and hugs; worth every penny.

A few weeks ago I was riding in the back seat of my daughter, Carri's, vehicle with my nearly 6 year old grandson, Davis, seated next to me properly strapped into his mandatory "booster" headed toward downtown San Diego where we were to have something to eat.  Out of the corner of my eye I observed he had a noticeable gap at the bottom of his mouth where I suspected a tooth used to reside.  Apparently his older sister, Emily, either didn't remember or purposely withheld the information about the sizable reward that Papa provides for the loss of the first tooth.  When I quizzed Davis about the circumstances surrounding the loss of his incisor he was quick to point out that, in fact, he had actually lost both of the bottom front ones.  As I listened to his retelling of the experience I purposefully peeled off a $5 bill from the wad of folded bank notes I keep in my front pants pocket and handed it to him, snapping it quickly to gain his attention to the massive award he had obviously not anticipated.  As I handed the somewhat worn note to him he reacted in a way that caught me a little off-guard.  "Don't you have a ten?" he queried in an annoyed tone as if I had just insulted him.  Perhaps I did but now that he had thrown down the gauntlet I was more than willing to quickly take up my sword in defense.  "Nope" I responded with the precision of a highly trained medieval Knight deftly wielding his rapier after carefully choosing my words.  "Then I don't want it" he parried my thrust.

"Let's put this in the piggy bank in your bedroom"  Carri interjected from the front seat with all the conciliatory concern of a parent insecure about how well they have imparted graciousness lessons to their offspring.  "We'll save it for something you'll want to buy later" she offered in her best attempt at refereeing.

Davis took another look at the Fiver, considered its value relative to his pride, mulled over his options then further pronounced "I don't want this one.  It has a tear".

I sat silently the rest of the ride.