Tooth Fairy Economics
What She’s Really Worth
Elise lost her first tooth last week at the beach. We had been wiggling it each evening as we brushed and flossed, and it had grown looser by the day. With what can only be described as admiral courage, she’d bitten into foods with the tooth in an attempt to hasten the process. “It hurts,” she acknowledged, “but maybe I should try an apple.”
It turns out all she needed was a turkey and cheese sandwich. The whole family was able to enjoy the event over lunch, and we immediately fell into a discussion about the tooth fairy. With great pomp and show the ritual of placing the tooth under her pillow unfolded at bedtime, and in the morning, she awoke to a five-dollar bill.
“What will you buy?” I asked her.
She looked at me with an expression of gravity.
“Ice cream.”
Sadly, five dollars won’t buy much ice cream these days. A lively discussion had centered upon how much money the tooth fairy would be giving; how much is a baby tooth worth after all? Suggestions from social media were floated. Some recommended one dollar, some recommended ten. Alternatives were offered, such as a commemorative gold coin. All of these suggested marked inflation since my childhood days when we got quarters.
So, what is the value of a baby tooth? What should it buy? Tooth fairy economics became my new fascination. I read numerous articles, including a 2016 article in Forbes that detailed, among other things, the history of the tradition.
The origin story of this tiny benefactor is of regional variability. By all accounts, baby teeth were held in high esteem long ago. The Norse believed they held luck and paid children for their teeth which they strung onto necklaces and wore into battle. Other cultures believed teeth were linked to the soul. It was believed that if a witch came into possession of an individual’s teeth, she could control that person completely. Many people burned their children’s baby teeth for this reason, or due to a superstition that the burning would ensure the child’s happiness in the afterlife.
The actual practice of putting the tooth under one’s pillow for a fairy to collect has many potential sources but seems most likely to have been derived from an old French children’s tale, La Bonne Petite Souris. Whatever the case, according to folklorist Tad Tuleja, in the early 1900s teeth transitioned from being a conduit of the soul to a structure more suited to the modern-day free-market economy. The tradition of the tooth fairy, he contends, teaches children less about fate and acts of providence, and more about monetization. Even of their own body parts.
This seems a bit of an exaggeration, but what do I know?
My own understanding of the tooth fairy, the one I hope to impart to my child, is simply that there is a specialness to these events. As with any change, one’s body transitioning from that of a child to an adult can be a source of fear. Or it can be ushered in with ceremony. One of the magical aspects of childhood is that they have the opportunity to believe in fantastical entities who bring gifts, be they Christmas presents, Easter eggs, or sprites with cold hard cash.
As I watch my own child partake in this time-honored tradition, it occurs to me that a further value exists in tooth fairy economics. Because she brings not only money but memories.
The loss of Elise’s first tooth is one of many small, special occasions I was uncertain I’d live to enjoy. I wasn’t even sure how well she’d remember me by the time those moments came to pass. My children were quite young when I was diagnosed with cancer. It happened on Elise’s fourth birthday, and Dorian was an eighteen-month-old baby. Of all the potential tragedies flashing through my head at the time, I recall with precision considering that my children could grow up never knowing who I was. That they might lose their memories of me, like an ephemeral recollection that slowly fades with the passage of time.
They are five and a half and three now, and my joy of watching them age is accompanied by the hope that I am being anchored into them somehow. That they are building stronger memories of me and a place in their hearts where they can find me no matter what should come to pass.
We are tilting into the realm where they might remember me if I were gone, and selfishly the knowledge brings solace. Elise will remember this week of swimming in the waves. Perhaps she’ll remember me teaching her to bodyboard, and hopefully, she will still hear the echo of my voice when she encounters waves in life.
“Not everything can be fought. Sometimes to conquer a thing, you must ride it.”
She’ll remember ice cream on the pier every night, even after her tooth fairy money was exhausted, and mostly I hope she remembers how it felt to lose her tooth. How it hurt a little to grow up, but how it was also laced with magic. These transitions, they are the bitter-sweetness of life.
The every day is easily forgotten, but a Fae deity? Such a thing leaves a mark. The tooth fairy has blessed us with memories, and these are worth more, economically or otherwise, than I can articulate.
Originally published at https://facingmonsters.com on June 17, 2020.
