If I had a dollar for every time I searched my kids’ rooms for cash to play the tooth fairy because I was out of singles, I’d be quite well-off. Maybe not wealthy, but I could certainly afford to cover the cost of those lost teeth without the frantic 3 A.M. scavenger hunt. Honestly, who needs the tooth fairy?
I understand the sentiment behind her—she’s a cherished childhood tradition, a sprinkle of magic in an ever-fleeting world of innocence. But I have to say, I find her to be more of a nuisance than a delight.
In today’s world, where a simple coffee can cost three dollars and we often rely on debit cards, expecting to have spare one-dollar bills lying around for an unexpected tooth is unrealistic. Are we running a bank here? And don’t even get me started on how the average payout for a tooth is now around three bucks. That amounts to a staggering sixty dollars for my three kids’ teeth—a total of 180 dollars! Think of all the coffee I could buy with that!
Then there’s the challenge of actually remembering to perform this tooth fairy duty. Between preparing dinner, giving baths, packing lunches, assisting with homework, and managing a barrage of emails, the last thing on my mind is sneaking into my children’s rooms to leave money under their pillows without waking them. All for the sake of a fictional fairy? My tired brain can barely manage it.
For kids who struggle with bedtime fears, this whole idea can be quite unsettling. Sure, they’re safe in their beds, but we’re telling them a creature will swoop in while they sleep to take away something they’ve grown attached to! What kind of message does that send?
And who thought it was a good idea to teach kids about trading body parts for cash? Isn’t money supposed to be earned through chores or some form of bribery? This exchange sets a concerning precedent. What’s next? A hundred dollars for a severed finger? It’s a slippery slope.
Meanwhile, when my puppy loses her baby teeth, they either vanish into the void of single socks or get swallowed. Seems like a much more sensible way for teeth to disappear—akin to the fate of fingernail clippings.
If I’m going to spend money, I’d rather invest in capturing a toothless grin for posterity. A dollar for a toothless smile is worth it, and I’ll have a photo to cherish. My kids will have some cash for their piggy banks, and I’ll have two bucks left for my coffee—no mythical creatures involved.