My son didn’t notice that he’d lost his first tooth, since he was eating a bowl of Cheerios at the time, and thus suffered one of the lesser-advertised drawbacks of a crunchy breakfast. It’s only minutes later that he clocks his mouth is a man down and the chomper that’s been wobbling for the past week (his bottom right central incisor, if you’re taking notes) is now on its digestive path from gut to porcelain and, thence, to the sea.
That unpleasantness aside, he is ecstatic. This is, in large part, due to one of the true wonders of human sociology. Consider that there is a subgrouping of people – children – whose teeth fall out, one by one, over several years; a process so innately distressing that it is a foundational nightmare for every human on the planet.
And consider that what happens next is that the gummy gaps in their mouths are then filled with adult teeth, big enough for your head or mine. And that there will be 12 more added to the 20 they currently enjoy, pulled from a tessellating rack of teeth which exist, even now, deep inside the skulls of those very children.
Given all these facts, it is nothing less than a marvel that we have so successfully rebranded this experience – to a cohort who are, let’s face it, quite fond of complaining about most things – that they now universally embrace such grisly horror with joy.
The answer lies in commerce, of course. Specifically, the promise that this ejected enamel will be exchanged by the Tooth Fairy for cold, hard cash. As a fan of money, my son has known of the Tooth Fairy for some time, has long anticipated their first transaction, and is now avidly discussing her rates of business. Other parents we know have settled on an introductory offer of £1 to £2 for Tooth 1, lowering to a lesser rate for subsequent donations, and we’re about to put this to him when he hits upon a snag. ‘How do I get the money without the tooth?’ he asks, suddenly lamenting his dentivore breakfast.
‘Er, you fill out a form’ I splutter vaguely, since it’s the only thing I can think to say, and he’s already late for school. This is how I end up spending the rest of my morning drafting Form TF230 from the Department of Teeth, replete with checkboxes specifying the hue of the tooth lost – eggshell, custard, wee, etc – and small-print legal disclaimers clarifying that ‘The condition and colour of said tooth will determine the cash amount paid, in keeping with market valuations agreed upon by Tooth Fairy assessors.’
Two hours in, the result is not remotely professional enough, so I rope in my design-genius friend Michael to elevate it towards credibility by teatime. Through his magic, it soon has a tooth map, a government barcode, and is headed with a departmental seal, complete with heraldic molar.
My son barely misses a beat when I present it to him and gets to work filling it out and folding it for postage beneath his pillow.
‘Is this real?’ he finally asks, more in wonder than accusation. I buffer for a second. ‘Of course,’ I say, lying through his teeth and mine.
