Crayon-ing Achievements

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor. 

My eyebrows shot up so far on my head, it looked like my hair had a toupee. 

"Challenge accepted," I said. 

This was in early spring in our playroom, and I really planned to write about what she pointed out in the days that followed. But, as it always does, life happened. School and Hebrew school and gymnastics and laundry and baseball and soccer and birthday parties and Girl Scouts and play dates and laundry and family gatherings and Girls on the Run and lawn mowing (I still needed a little me time) and trying to keep all three children fed with something besides pizza and chicken nuggets and laundry, so much laundry.

It'll make your head spin if you don't stop occasionally to take a deep breath. And there were two milestone events later in the spring that made me pause and wonder where the time went: my younger daughter's graduation from preschool and my older daughter's graduation from fifth grade. 

(Lest you worry about my son feeling left out: Don't worry, he's been living his best life. He wrote a note to his school crush to determine if they could "be friends"; she responded "yes" -- and drew a heart. When asked on a school assignment what the reading was about, he responded: "Earth. It's obvious," leading to a talk with his teacher. And, since January, with a straight face, he has told my 5-year-old that she's 4 years old and turning 5 in the fall, correcting her when she tells him she's 5 years old and even leading me sometimes to double-check the math in my head.) 

My oldest began kindergarten sitting at a little desk in our dining room, watching her teacher on a laptop. She strode into her 5th grade graduation ceremony in the school cafetorium a smart, silly, sometimes sassy, always caring young lady. Sure, middle school girl drama might be fifth-grade-girl drama on elephant steroids, but she has a good head on her shoulders, and it's been amazing watching her start to figure out who she is and who she wants to be. Besides our in-house babysitter and activities director when her sister has friends over.

Speaking of our youngest, while I was very excited at the fifth-grade graduation, I was feeling more nostalgic at the preschool graduation. Our daughter's departure capped nine years of "us" schlepping a child 20ish minutes to preschool four times a week. And by "us," I mean "Belle," who did most of the morning drop-offs and led the Parents' Association the last three years. I'm worried she might start driving south on I-95 on the first day of kindergarten out of habit.

Talking to parents with their first kid in preschool this past year, I wanted to pat them on the head, let them know everything would be OK and then walk away chuckling to myself. I went from breathlessly awaiting photos from my oldest daughter's day in her 2's class to not opening the app for days at a time this year. There is something magical about seeing your child make friends on their own and thrive in a classroom setting for the first time. There is something more magical about not having to wipe their butts after they poop.

Which brings us back to Belle's writing challenge. With all of the school transitions pending, she wanted to update our playroom this spring by replacing a small art table with big-kid desks for each child to have their own space to work. This included buying a crayon organizer with sections for different colors, meaning we could consolidate the roughly 85,482 half-filled boxes of crayons we had into one location. (On a related note, I frequently say "crayons" as "crowns." I used to believe it was a Baltimore accent thing, but now I believe I've been mispronouncing it all along.)

As she sorted the crowns -- er, crayons -- she noted they were different sizes and worn down at varying angles. Some were missing wrappers, some were giant-sized for beginners. Some were standard, others sparkled. But they all had been used and used well. 

She was filling the containers, in other words, with memories. 

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor with a smile on her face.

Your turn, dear.  

The Tooth of the Matter

To understand why Belle said, at approximately 2:50 a.m. Jan. 2, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we first need to go back about 42 years.

I was born with a small mouth and a short tongue. If I stick my tongue out, it looks like I have a third, fat lip. When I lick an ice cream cone, my whole face approaches the cone the way a bulldog approaches its water bowl. The problem is my tongue is tied very close to the front of my mouth. This causes words to sometimes spill out of my mouth in a jumbled mess, and sometimes I can feel my mind moving four times faster than my jaw. 

My son has inherited many things from me - dashing good looks, a love of reading, the appreciation of a quality fart. He also has my small mouth and short tongue. His dentist told us last year he probably would need braces by the time he's 8 to make more space in his mouth for his adult teeth; I had braces the first time around the same age and then had braces again in my early teens.

He also was self-conscious about not being able to make certain sounds. A speech therapist worked with him twice before telling us the problem is that he physically can't maneuver his tongue and recommended he work with a myofunctional therapist, which is Greek for "not covered by insurance." She is giving him daily exercises for his tongue that we sometimes do together. He already can make his tongue in the shape of a taco. My attempt looks more like an open-faced gyro.

The myofunctional therapist recommended my son go to the orthodontist to evaluate his crowded mouth. We agreed, knowing sooner rather than later he would need braces. What we did not know was that "sooner" meant "one week later," and on Dec. 30, he had braces on a bunch of his top teeth. (He chose for the colors of his braces' bands orange, black and purple, something else he inherited from me.)

So, when he came into our room at approximately 2:30 a.m. Jan. 2, I immediately asked if his teeth were hurting. He said he just needed a drink - from a cup right beside his bed. I tucked him back in and then noticed our eldest daughter's bedroom door was open, which I thought was strange because Belle closes all the kids' doors before we go to sleep. 

But to understand why Belle said, approximately 20 minutes later, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we need to go back to earlier in the evening.

I would tell you the exact time but that would imply I remembered to put money under my daughter's pillow in exchange for her tooth. Instead, I know Belle told me sometime earlier in the day to do it in the evening, I acknowledged receipt of the request and promptly forgot.

We were already a day late for the tooth fairy but no kids noticed because of New Year's Eve festivities. My eldest daughter also figured out who the tooth fairy was a few years ago when she observed the tooth fairy's handwriting looked suspiciously like mine. (I switched from an all-caps style to my version of cursive, but we couldn't fool her.) Since the younger kids still had most of their teeth to lose, we reached an unspoken agreement: She would keep getting $5 per tooth in exchange for keeping the tooth fairy's identity a secret. 

(Yes, $5 a tooth. I'm sure when my youngest is losing her last teeth we'll be Venmoing her $35 a molar.)  

Back to the early hours of Jan. 2. I went back to our bedroom and told Belle our son was OK. She then told me I needed to do the tooth fairy for our daughter. I found some money and tiptoed into my daughter's room. Naturally, she woke up immediately. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Uh, just checking on you. Your brother just woke up," I said, closing my door on the way out.

I walked back to my bedroom.

"You need to give her the money," Belle said. 

I walked back down the hall. 

"I don't have a note but I want to give you money from the tooth fairy," I said. "Where's your tooth?"

"I want to keep my tooth," she said.

"Keep your tooth?"

"Yeah."

"OK, here's the money."

I walked back into our bedroom. Belle shot out of bed. 

"I heard the whole conversation down the hall," she whisper-yelled, implying our son could have still been up and heard the illicit transaction, too. The tooth fairy, she told our daughter, had to take her tooth or else would not be doing her job. My daughter ultimately handed over the tooth, and I gave her the $5. 

We closed her door and went back into our bed around 2:50 a.m., at which point Belle, who had not slept particularly well the previous nights, said, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy." I buried my head as far under our blankets as possible to muffle my laughter.

I slipped a note from the tooth fairy under my daughter's door before she woke up. The younger kids did not ask about the tooth or tooth fairy the following day. 

Most importantly, the f---- tooth fairy did not keep Belle up. My snoring did.