Oh M my G.
Why the heck was I complaining last Friday?
Why the heck was I having a panic attack about a possible lost tooth, that ended up being just loose, and not lost?
Remember my angst about Tiny’s first loose tooth? Remember how I read Tiny’s dad’s text as it being his first lost tooth? Remember how I said I wanted to be there for every single first, because that was my right as Tiny’s mom? Remember how I said I wasn’t ready for him to grow up so fast, because this first tooth was an epic development in his life?
I want nothing to do with that tooth. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to think about it.
I don’t want to pull out that damn tooth.
Tiny came home on Monday morning, still wiggly-toothed. I gave him a huge welcome home hug. I gave him a huge welcome home kiss. And then I asked a question I will regret asking for the rest of my life, “Hey, Son Son, can you show me your loose tooth?”
Proud as a tiny human can be, Tiny Tot, my wonderful little boy, reached up, put his finger in his mouth, and wiggled that damn tooth. My response can only be described as full-bodied revulsion. I shuddered over the way the tooth moved back and forth. I shook my head, trying to clear the image from my mind. I cringed when that didn’t work, and the wiggly tooth came back into my mind, unbidden. I made a face that would break a camera lens, squeezing my eyes, pursing my lips, and trying desperately not to gag.
No, I was not adult about any of it.
How did Tiny Tot react to my utterly disgusted response? He laughed his tiny little butt off, and then asked me to touch his loose tooth.
No. No. No.
“No, Baby, Mommy will not ever touch that gross tooth of yours. But thank you for showing me,” I somehow managed, swallowing bile.
I would like to remind people here that I play with blood for a living. I see, smell, and touch completely nasty things every day. Oh, yeah, and I’m a mom. I have cleaned up the runniest of diarrhea in the backseat of a car, with only wet wipes and a baggy. I have done 2 AM vomit clean ups, completely by myself. I have been handed boogers without any forewarning, other than, “Here, Mommy, hold this.”
But, this tooth … .
So, throwing his giggling, wiggly-toothed weight around, my tiny human grabbed my finger–with me trying to pull away … homeboy is strong!–and made me touch it. He made me feel his tooth.
In response, I yelped, yanked back my hand like I’d reached under the couch and touched a snake, and jumped about three feet away. I warded off the evil wiggly-tooth like it was demon-possessed–with my little boy giving full belly laughs over his drama queen of a mother. Finally, I told Tiny that I would at least get a picture. But, after that picture, I only wanted daily updates, without any demonstration, whatsoever.
Apparently, Tiny thinks this is whole situation is nothing short of hilarious. Every day he comes into the house, and then he remembers how grossed out Mommy gets over seeing his wiggly tooth. So he turns, looks at me, and announces, “Mommy! Watch this!”
Unfortunately, I have absolutely no learning curve. Therefore I look up, only to witness him popping his tiny index finger inside his tiny, little mouth, and wiggling that tiny, little tooth. Every day, in response, I give an involuntary, full-bodied shudder. It’s gross. The whole situation is disturbing. Little wiggly teeth are nothing short of disgusting.
What made the situation worse, however, was my father.
“So, how loose is Tiny’s tooth?” he asked yesterday, in the middle of work talk.
“Not very loose, yet. It’s still pretty fixed to his gum line. It probably won’t come out this week.” I responded, hoping and wishing that it would wait another two weeks–for when it was again my ex’s turn.
Yes, I’ve done a complete 180 … almost.
“How will you pull it out?” my dad said, looking at me.
“Um, I won’t. I am not touching that tooth. You remember how I reacted when Sally Francis wiggled her teeth at me? The whole mouthful of them? Yeah. I thought if it was Tiny I would be different. Turns out, it’s worse!”
Dad laughed, and I was left thinking that I am not equipped to deal with this damn tooth. I’m just not. What I want is for it–and all following teeth–to magically leap out of his mouth, unaided and unassisted by me. Then I can tuck it into his tiny tooth pillow, and he can await a shiny gold coin for the morning. This way, I can put the tooth, and newly updated photo, in a book that Grandma bought especially for the tooth loss growing phase, and write the complete story of him losing each tooth.
“On one bright day in the end of November, Tiny’s tooth decided it needed a quick escape, because he was no longer allowed to live in Tiny’s mouth. His adult tooth had arrived, and was finally ready to make an appearance in Tiny’s little mouth! It came out with a bit of wiggling, and absolutely no help from Tiny’s mother, because it knew how grossed out she was by the entire event. Therefore, it adhered to her wishes, and jumped ship.”
I mean, that’s a reasonable request to make on a tooth, right?
Sigh. I know, I know. Teeth aren’t people, and don’t understand how revolting a small, wiggly tooth is to the tiny person’s mom.
I wonder if the Tooth Fairy takes bribes.