Parenting and family, served with a shot of vodka
If you’re a lady of a certain age, you probably recall Judy Blume’s classic 1970 young adult book, “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret.”
It explores a number of coming of age issues, one of which is that Margaret simply cannot wait to start her period, like some of her other friends. (I always wondered if she later made a diary entry that began, “Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret. I retract everything I ever said about wanting my period. It’s a nightmare!”)
Anyway, I bring it up because my five-year-old son has been going through something similar, except he’s obviously not looking for Aunt Flo.
The young man is dying to lose his first tooth. DYING. Most of his pals have gaping holes in their mouths where their baby teeth once nestled.
Some have lost two. Or three. Or FOUR, even. But he’s still got a mouth full of wee chompers.
Every day, he painstakingly messes with all of his teeth, hoping one will eventually wiggle, just a little bit. He’ll chew on his hand once or twice while sitting on the couch — “Just checking to see if anything feels loose, mommy!”
Lately, he’s started flicking his bottom teeth with his fingers. Hard, too, as though he’s trying to snap a paper football through a goal post on the other side of the world.
But much to his dissatisfaction, those baby pearly whites are holding on tight. He was a little late to get his teeth as a baby, and with a July birthday, he’s younger than almost all his classmates. So, it may still be a while for my young lad.
This is the first real, tangible time I’ve seen Superhero aching to grow up. I know it won’t be the last. I hate to tell him how impatient he’ll be when he’s the last one to driving.
At any rate, the Tooth Fairy is on standby. She assures me she’s got an Abraham Lincoln or two stashed away for that first tooth.
Patience is a virtue that sometimes come with rewards.