The Tooth Fairy would never hire me. Ever. Heck, I wouldn’t even hire myself for the job.
Audrey pulled her eighth tooth this week. She did it at school, so she lovingly tucked her gross little tooth into a plastic baggy and put it in her bag. One hour later, in the car, she can’t find the tooth. Major drama ensues. She comforts herself by saying aloud, “I’ll just have to write the Tooth Fairy a letter.” I agreed with her, then turned to our 12-year old, Grace, and said, “TOOTH FAIRY. REMIND ME!”
Nighttime came and went and we all forgot about the Tooth Fairy. It seems to be the only consistent thing that happens to me in this household. Audrey realized later in the morning that she didn’t leave the note and, therefore, the Tooth Fairy didn’t leave anything. Again, I agreed with her rationale.
Second night rolls around and Audrey furiously scribbles an adorable note to the crappy Tooth Fairy. She shoves it under her pillow, I kiss her goodnight and go into my husband’s office to whisper, “TOOTH FAIRY. REMIND ME!” He nods and promptly forgets. As do I…for the second night in a row. I mean, really, the Tooth Fairy’s management skills pretty much suck at this point. I’m not even on a formal performance improvement plan.
Audrey’s heartbroken as she discovers her note is still under her pillow and the Tooth Fairy hasn’t left a darn thing. As I mentally kick myself and text Michael, “OMG, TOOTH FAIRY FAILURE,” Audrey dives into her backpack to search harder for her tooth-in-a-baggy.
She finds it. We are all saved and grateful.
On the third night, the gross little tooth rests under her pillow and the Tooth Fairy’s helper leaves Audrey $3. And now we have world peace. Well, at least in the Turner House.