tooth fairies and tooth demons

At some point in the silent post-midnight hours after I went to bed, but before dawn’s chirruping chorus awoke my second son, Quentin Wilberforce, T.F. visited himself upon us yet again. I have never seen Quentin, nor have I heard the passage of his footfalls outside our door. He must be very light to avoid squeaking the wood floorboards in the hallway.

I imagine Quentin as short, perhaps Hobbit-short, small as a four year old child, and very, very thin. I see him as older and dapper, with graying mutton chop whiskers. Archaic clothes, well worn but exquisitely tailored, with bone buttons on a tweed waistcoat. I have never asked Geran what Quentin looks like, and he has not asked me. None of us know for sure, though he leaves a calling card each time he visits our home, so as invisible visitors go, he is unmistakably corporeal.

We have naturally assumed the T.F. appended to Quentin’s name stands for “Tooth Fairy,” though this has always been implied, never spelled out. His visits are marked by notes left for Geran, written on tooth-shaped paper with carefully-canceled tooth-shaped stamps. These notes are a dead giveaway, an unmistakable clue as to Quentin’s fairy nature, as they are seldom seen except when left by visiting creatures of Toothkind. The stamps alone would mark this as peculiar, and I have never seen similar commemorative postage issued by the U.S. Mail.

I thought the most recent note that Quentin left had a rather odd shape, and not at all the typical Tooth. It was as dissimilar from the standard outline of teeth as a real heart from a Valentine, but Geran pointed out that the shape of his latest card matched his small, prolate pearl of a tooth.

As I recall, my elder son, who is now closer to losing his Wisdom Teeth than to his last, long-passed “baby tooth”, had more than one tooth fairy in his day. One was female, I believe. I don’t recall her name. For some reason the male’s name sticks in my head, however: Throckmorton Idyll Bluster III, T.F. A mouthful of a moniker, and one that required a full set of teeth to pronounce.

Geran has, I believe, only been visited by Quentin, a seemingly small and delicate fairy as evidenced by the ornate and miniscule script.


Throckmorton and his female counterpart visited Ben a large number of times. Thrice in one memorable week: one tooth which fell out naturally, one which was pulled, and one which fell victim to an apple. I’m sure there’s a story in there somewhere, one that gets told by Throckmorton Idyll Bluster himself, at dark and musical Tooth Fairy gatherings, over flagons of questionable beverages around green and ghostly campfires on the moor.

Once, toward the middle of his prime tooth-giving years, Ben asked Marci, “Mommy, are you the tooth fairy?”

Marci looked at him and replied, “Do you really think I have time to fly to peoples’ houses all night and take away little kids’ teeth?”

Hesitation. “No, I guess not.”

“Well, there you have it, then.”

On another occasion, Ben said somewhat hesitantly, “Daddy, if I asked you to tell me the truth about the tooth fairy, would you?”

“Is that something you really want to know?”

He thought about it. “Not right now.” He never mentioned it again, and as he has grown into a young skeptic, I’m glad for that. The Tooth Fairy has been a tangible presence, unseen but definitely sensed, and a “small god” of the most personal sort. Some mysteries are best left alone.


Both boys wrote notes to their respective tooth fairies. Geran still does, since he’s the one who is still losing teeth. The notes are brief and, I imagine, as hard to read by Quentin as they are by me. But the messages are heartfelt and sincere. How are you? Is there a Tooth Fairy Queen? Do you have a middle name? Where do the teeth go when you take them?

I imagine some sort of castle made from the teeth, but I’m not positive on that count. As I’ve already said, there is undoubtedly a moor involved. And dim light even at midday.

One thing I can definitely say about the Tooth Fairy is that the money exchanged for teeth has risen. I’m not sure it’s kept up with inflation, but as I recall, the tooth fairies of the 1970’s paid in quarters, and today’s T.F. pays in small bills.


I imagine the polar opposite of the Tooth Fairy: a tooth demon, wicked and sharp-incisored, who pulls teeth before they’re ready to come out. Some times I will threaten that if the kids do not get ready for bed they will be visited by the Tooth Demon. It hasn’t happened. But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

Perhaps the Tooth Demon visits us already, and leaves bad breath, oily hair, and socks on the floor. That would explain a lot. If so, the Tooth Demon is much busier than the Tooth Fairy in my house.

But much less welcome.

congratulations Ben you mad it?

<This is a guest post written by my wife, Marci>

We are counting down the days until our oldest son, Ben, becomes a Bar Mitzvah. There are so many last-minute items to take care of, so Doug and I have divided the list and set out to conquer!

My task was going to Lucky’s, a grocery store I normally try to avoid, to order the large platters of fruit and piles of fried chicken for the last event of the weekend, a picnic in the park for the remaining out of town guests. The last thing on my list was ordering the cake. After waiting ten minutes at the counter for someone to assist me, a woman finally comes to take my order.

I tell her I want the half-sheet cake, chocolate: chocolate filling, chocolate icing.

“What do you want the message to be?” she asks, getting out a pad and pencil.

I recite slowly: “Congratulations, Ben, You Made It!” Then I tell her, “Be sure to add the exclamation point.”

I look across the counter at her pad, where she’s written the following question: “Congratulations Ben you mad it?”

“No,” I say, “exclamation point!”

She says, “Yes, I have it. Did you want it somewhere else?”

“That is a question mark! I want an exclamation point! And I want an ‘e’ at the end of ‘mad,’ and while you’re at it, a couple of commas would be great, too.”

After several back and forths, she managed to write the words properly. The anticipation is killing me; I can’t wait until Sunday to see what actually shows up on the cake!

life lessons from a kinder killer

I’m not a pet person. Pets smell, they never grow up and have their own lives, and if you eat them your family gets really upset. Fish meet one of my personal standards for pets: flushability. We also keep an ancient pile of hair and dander, beneath which you’ll find our arthritic cat. She’s grandmothered in, though, part of the family longer than our kids.

But other pets, no. Dog? Too loud and excitable. Potbellied pig? C’mon. A walking sausage. Fatty but definitely edible. Giant Galapagos tortoise? You can’t keep a pet that will outlive your grandchildren: a giant tortoise keeps you. Hamster? Well, a hamster is a reasonable pet for people who don’t really like pets. I mean, they’re cute, and they’re cuddly, and they die at the drop of a hat. Life span somewhere between a fruit fly and a Saturday Night Live sketch.

When Ben was in kindergarten, and the school kept hamsters, I figured the school sent them home with the children on the weekends just to teach the kids early life lessons. Mortality. The ultimate futility of everything. Stuff kids need to know. “Grandpa could go at any time, just like Harry the Hamster.” But, oddly enough, the kindergarten hamster made it through the first few months of the year. We’d even taken it home ourselves, and it was still breathing and quivering fearfully when we gratefully returned it on Monday morning.

One week later was a milestone in little Ben’s life. In kindergarten, Ben would never ride in anyone else’s car. Separation anxiety. Childhood road rage. But Marci, uncomfortable at the tail end of her pregnancy, got Ben to agree to carpool with a kindergarten friend. How had she worked this magic? Harry the Hamster would be there!

Our friends Barbara and Fred had taken home Harry the Hamster the week after us, and it was now Monday morning. Barbara’s car rolled up in front of our house, Marci walked out holding Ben’s nervous little hand, and Barbara opened the rear door. Whereupon Ben’s kindergarten friend Bradley threw open his arms in welcome and screamed out, “The hamster DIED!!!”

True story. Harry the Hamster’s number was up the very next weekend after we’d taken the little fur-ball home. Thank goodness we weren’t the ones who’d drawn the short straw. I’d still be paying for therapy. The kids in the class were devastated. Enough so that the school decided that a hamster lending library was probably not a good idea.

Soon after the Loss Weekend, Geran was born. Suddenly ex-utero, he spent most of the day drinking, pooping and sleeping. As Marci said, “He takes after his father.” Geran missed the demise of Harry the Hamster, and as a consequence is untroubled by the thought of death. Though, oddly enough, he nevertheless fears furry creatures.

A few weeks after Geran’s birth we were visited by Barbara and Fred, who kindly stopped by to bring us dinner. Their daughter Emily was four; her older brother, Bradley, was in kindergarten with Ben. We had a nice visit, talking and laughing in the living room while the three bigger kids played on the floor behind the couch.

All of a sudden, in the middle of a sentence, Barbara sat up straight as a lodgepole pine and looked quickly back and forth, head sweeping the living room, her eyes like spotlights at a prison camp. “Where’s EMILY?”

“Huh? She’s behind the couch with…oh. Dunno. She can’t have gone far.”

“Emily? EMILY?” Barbara jumped up in a panic, and her husband followed her with uncharacteristic grimness. I looked at Marci, who shrugged back at me, and we got off the couch.

“I’m sure there’s no trouble,” Marci called out, as Barbara headed for the back hallway. We followed our guests into Geran’s room. No problem: he was sleeping peacefully in his bassinet, little Emily peering at him over the top.

“Emily! Come away from there right now!” Barbara grabbed her daughter by the arm and pulled her out of the baby’s bedroom. Luckily, the noise didn’t wake Geran, who could cry loudly enough to rupture eardrums and shatter Hummel figurines. (As an aside, I consider the shattering of Hummel figurines to be a worthy skill, and since scarcity brings value, suggest eradicating as many as possible.)

“No harm done,” Marci said. “Geran’s fine, he’s sleeping. Emily was only watching him.”

Barbara, still holding firm to her daughter’s arm, just tilted her head downward and cast a meaningful glance at us over the top of her glasses. In a lowered voice, she asked, “Remember the hamster?” Turns out, Harry had not died of natural causes. Unless having sticks shoved up your nose by a four year old is a natural end for a hamster.

That became our rallying cry for some time afterwards. Remember the Hamster!


Psycho Killer,
Qu’est-ce que c’est?

the electric kool-aid pregnancy test

My parents often said they were as lucky in pregnancy as they were lucky in love. Perhaps they said this more often than they should have. They used to tell us about it with some frequency, especially when they returned from vacations. Greg and I would pick them up at the airport and ask, “How was your trip?” and Mom would start talking about making beds creak and chandeliers sway. We didn’t really need to know that. 

Dad would invariably be off at baggage claim, talking to some distinguished businessman he’d met on the plane, when Greg or I would march up and announce, “Hey, Pop—we hear the sex was great!”

Anyway, Mom claims that nine months before I arrived on the scene she said, “Gerald, I think it’s time we had a b—” and instantly she was pregnant. My father, who claimed to be able to foretell the gender of unborn babies, said that he called my grandmother that day to say that her daughter was ten minutes pregnant with a firstborn son.

My wife doubted the veracity of that story. But then again, she doubted that my grandfather the urologist performed his own vasectomy, until my grandmother—who had been his nurse—confirmed the tale. Some things are just too cool to make up.

The circumstances surrounding my conception, appropriately enough, took place while my then-future parents were on vacation. Mom and Dad had gone to a resort in New Mexico that didn’t quite live up to its exciting brochure. The few other guests at the “dud ranch” were triple the age of my young folks and didn’t put in much of an appearance. The swimming pool hadn’t seen water in years. The golf course had completely reverted to nature, and the cuisine was of the canned variety.

So the big bop that resulted in my existence after Mom’s oft-repeated sentence interruptus had a boost from boredom. That doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, when I eventually came to grips with the idea of having a child of my own, about six months after my wife broached the selfsame subject with a similar sentence that I was kind enough to allow her to complete, I suggested that we start our family the same way: with a vacation.

This was five years into our marriage. Marci and I had planned a terrific vacation in Spain, and we thought it would be a great time to get started, but we reconsidered after reading that morning sickness can start as early as 10 days post-conception. That could have made Marci miserable on the last part of the vacation.

So we discussed starting our family atop a mountain during a camping trip. I said it would get our firstborn off to a good start and produce a strong child who shared our outdoor interests. I didn’t really believe that, but I thought the idea possessed a certain poetry. It’s important to schedule vital life choices around story opportunities: it makes the really important stuff easier to remember.

As it happened, we went the opposite topographic direction and planned a trip with eight of our friends to go caving deep in the limestone of the central Texas Hill Country. During a wonderful weekend at Colorado Bend State Park, tent camping by a beautiful river with our friends, we donned frayed, muddied and dissolving jeans; knee and elbow pads; helmets and head lamps, and climbed, crawled and slithered deep into the bowels of the earth. The most intense of these crawling cave tours ended with a long and difficult climb back to the surface, pushing our way through a rock tube so narrow that your arms had to remain by your side. We wriggled our way upward to sunlight through this birth canal, our helmets scraping the wall.

As romantic and suggestive as this underground adventure undoubtedly sounds, you may be surprised to hear that it didn’t lead Marci and me to immediate heights of passion. We remained somewhat muddy during the weekend and camped within ready earshot of our fellow mole-people, and so contented ourselves with gritty nighttime snuggling.

However, two hours after returning from the trip, I called my mother-in-law to say that Marci was ten minutes pregnant.

Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. That Sunday afternoon was in fact the first time it would have been possible for our chromosome carriers to meet (for the usual slip covered reasons), but we certainly didn’t expect results the first time out. In fact, due to Marci’s bout with cancer some years earlier and the radiation that got her through, we weren’t sure that we would be able to have kids at all.

But shortly later came the morning when Marci expected to have her monthly visitation. You could set a watch by Marci’s menstrual cycle. 7:30 AM, regular as clockwork. By 8:00 that Tuesday morning, we had begun speculating. I went to work that day thinking I was going to become a father. We didn’t tell anyone, of course. Most people don’t suspect that they’re pregnant as early as we did, and many pregnancies end without having much of a beginning.

A week or so later, I headed to a company conference in San Francisco to do product demonstrations on stage in front of excited hordes of computer geeks. Marci picked up an Early Pregnancy Test at the grocery store the day I left, and I made her promise to leave that little pink and blue box closed until I returned.

How could she wait? On Halloween night I called when I got back to my hotel room. It was 11:30, Dallas time. I sat on the bed in my dark hotel room, looking out the window at the downtown San Francisco lights, and Marci took the EPT test while holding the cordless phone to her ear with her shoulder. I made her promise not to sneak a peak at the results until our long three minutes of waiting were up, and we tried to think of things to talk about while we waited during that short eternity.

“It’s lines,” she said softly into the phone, “there are three pink lines…you’re going to be a daddy!” We both lay back on our beds and cried in happiness, and held each other as best we could; I would have crawled through the phone. Over a thousand miles apart, yet so close in that moment.

After we said goodnight and I hung up, knowing that I couldn’t tell anyone I knew, I walked the night-lit but never empty streets of downtown San Francisco. Bursting with emotion, I released my news to passersby, to strangers in a bar, to panhandlers on the street, and everyone I met that night seemed to reflect a warm glow.

Are you reading this, my son?

* * * * * * *

We Announce Our Fetusness

The night I returned from California after Marci’s positive pregnancy test, we went straight to the bookstore. By the following morning I had read the baby manuals from cover to cover and was ready to face the next nine months. For eight weeks, we discussed how to tell our families that Marci was pregnant. I had a reputation to uphold, and wanted to find a really good way to surprise everyone. In the meantime, we’d agreed not to tell anyone. Not our siblings or parents or friends. Nobody.

So I just told my friend, Ben. And Marci told her friend, Karen. After all, you gotta tell your wedding party. But we didn’t tell my brother, and we didn’t tell Marci’s sister. So apart from the two of us, and Marci’s doctor, and Ben and Karen, and assorted complete strangers I’d encountered on Halloween eve in San Francisco, nobody knew.

We decided to let our families know during Thanksgiving dinner, when we would all be gathered together at my parents’ house. For weeks, we managed to keep the secret under wraps. It therefore came very much as a surprise one morning when Marci hung up the phone after a terse conversation with her sister Gwen, turned to me and said, “She knows!”

“What do you mean, ‘she knows’? Did she say she knows?”

“No, but I know she knows.” Sisters are like that.


Brief digression. Ever heard of kishka? It’s a Ukranian/Polish/Yiddish dish. Years earlier, on one of our first dates, Marci and I had found ourselves in Katz’s Deli in Austin, Texas, at about 3 AM. I saw kishka on the menu and pointed to it.

“What’s kishka?” I asked. I’d never heard of it.

Marci struggled for the words. “Oh, you know, it’s…um…it’s like this.” Skilled as she is in sign language, she gestured with her hands by way of explanation, holding her right thumb and forefinger together to make an ‘o’ and repeatedly shoving her left forefinger through the ‘o,’ in the international sign language symbolism that indicates of course that kishka is a sausage-like dish of beef intestines stuffed with a spiced filling. 

“I’ll take it!” I said, brightly.

Years later, when she brought home a stray Russian Blue, I acquiesced to keep our new kitten if I could name it, and chose the name Kishka.


So back to my wife’s oblique conversation with her sister. A day earlier, Marci had taken Kishka the cat to the vet. We had read about toxicoplasmosis, a virus commonly carried by cats that gives the mother a short bout of flulike symptoms but can be very hazardous to a young fetus. As soon as Marci told the vet that she wanted Kishka tested, Dr. W asked if Marci was pregnant.

“Well, yes. But my family doesn’t know yet. We’re planning to surprise them. So if my sister or mother brings in their cat this week, be sure not to let them know.”

Dr. W. promised to be discreet. He asked Marci if he could just take a picture of her with Kishka for his picture wall.

“Because I’m pregnant?” she asked.

“No, I just like to have pictures of my patients and their people.”

The Polaroid went on the wall with other pictures of people and their pets, and Dr. W. and his office staff promised again that they wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. So Marci and I were understandably dismayed when Gwen called the very next morning to engage her in the aforementioned conversation.

“I took Mitzi to Dr. W’s office this morning. She hasn’t been eating.”

“Oh,” said Marci. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. By the way, I saw your picture on Dr. Ward’s wall.”

That was pretty much the verbal part of the conversation, but Marci could tell Gwen knew Marci knew she knew. Marci called Dr. W’s office immediately and told them what had happened. Did they say anything to Gwen?

“Oh, no. We wouldn’t do that! Oh, no. We didn’t say a word.”

But truth will out. Gwen stopped by the house. “Out with it,” she said, after another few moments of pretense. And Marci confessed that she was indeed carrying an as-yet-unnamed embryonic lump.


Gwen had gone to Dr. W’s, and had noticed the picture on the wall of Marci and Kishka. Gwen pointed this out to Dr. W.

“Oh, yes—she’s pregnant. 

“She can’t be pregnant,” said Gwen, “she’s been spayed.”

But before Dr. W. could cover his tracks, the women working in his office exclaimed, “Dr. W! You weren’t supposed to tell her!” So our cover was blown.


Marci and I planned to tell the remainder of the family at Thanksgiving dinner. Since my brother wasn’t able to come in from Los Angeles, we set up the video camera to record the evening. We regularly did this for Greg’s benefit at the family events he wasn’t able to attend, so this was not unusual. At one point in the dinner, I led the family in a rousing greeting. Turning to the video camera, I raised my glass of wine and asked everyone to repeat after me:

Hello to Greg!
Hello to Greg!

We’re doing fine!
We’re doing fine!

Wish you were here!
We wish you were here!

Marci’s pregnant!!!
Marci’s pregnant!!???

There was a moment’s stunned silence before everyone at the table erupted into screams and laughter and jumped to their feet to embrace us and start in with questions. We still have the videotape, of course. It’s hilarious to watch the delayed reaction of everyone around the family table that night as they all go nuts.

All except Granddad, down near the far end of the table, who busily continued eating without looking up from his plate, and never broke stride. He shared the family joy, of course. You could see it in the way he chewed. Much later, we wondered if that was one of the early signs of his dementia. But at the time, it was just funny. And now that he’s gone and only the videotape remains, it’s funny again! Time will do that.

* * * * * * *

Hey, Son! Welcome To The Planet!

People will tell you that nine months passes very quickly. These are of course people who have already given birth. But for us, time did fly. Marci was blessed with an uneventful pregnancy devoid of morning sickness or other complications. The growing lump in her belly had been given a nickname, a special fetus name: we called it Mogo Pogo.

About a year earlier, Marci had a dream that she was pregnant with twins named Mogo Pogo and Pancake. So Mogo Pogo it was, and our families called our baby-to-be by its fetus name for nine months, as we stuck to our guns and refused to divulge Mogo’s actual name pre-birth.

By our calculation, Mogo Pogo was due to be born around the 4th of July. Marci’s doctor calculated the due date as June 27th. And we had read that often first babies are late.

On the evening of Father’s Day, at least two weeks before either expected due date, we were at my aunt’s house for dinner with the family. I had been working extremely long hours at the office to finish up a big project in anticipation of missing work for a few weeks, and as the evening was winding to a close I called the office and reached one of the engineers I’d been working with. I was surprised that he was at the office so late, but he said he was almost done with a feature and needed me to polish off the last details with him.

Michael and I were the only ones there that late on a Sunday night, and we worked in his office so we could use two computers side by side to get our work done in sync. By 1 AM we were starting to wind things up. We were getting rather punchy from being tired, working while listening to old Monty Python comedy albums.

As Marci entered the home stretch of her pregnancy, she had picked up a Baby Beeper for me, which I carried at work and whenever I was away from her. It had never occurred to me that because I hadn’t intended to be at work that evening, I wasn’t wearing the beeper. It never occurred to Marci either, so when her water broke at about 12:45 AM she paged me several times without realizing that the pager lay on my bedside table, turned off to conserve the battery (so I’d be sure it would work on the one occasion that justified its existence).

Marci had already called me at the office, but I hadn’t heard the phone ring since I was down the hall listening to the Parrot Sketch. In a message on my voicemail, which I heard several weeks later, she calmly said, “Hi, Doug. Please call me immediately.”

Apparently, she had called back a few minutes later, and sounded a little more concerned. “Doug—you need to call me right now!”

There was a third call on my voicemail. Marci’s voice was shaking. “Doug, my water broke and I don’t know where you are and I don’t know what I should do and you need to come home RIGHT NOW!!!”

Michael and I had reached a quiet point in the Monty Python album and I had momentarily stopped banging the computer keys. “Did you hear something?” I asked him. “I think I heard my phone ring.”

It took about six tenths of a second for me to go from “I think I heard my phone ring” to realizing that it was 1 AM and there was only one person who would call me and ohmygod I wasn’t wearing my beeper and by the end of that second I was already out of the chair and dashing for my office.

Marci said she was fine and wasn’t yet in active labor, though her water had broken. The hospital had told her to come on in. I ran for the car.

Normally, it took about 18 minutes to get to my house from the office. At 85 MPH, it takes considerably less time. As I sped homeward, I realized that I still had the Blockbuster movies in my car that we’d intended to return that evening. I’m glad there were no police around that night. I’m sure they would not have believed me that I was driving 70 through the Blockbuster parking lot in order to return videos so they wouldn’t be days overdue because I was in a hurry to get home so I could take my wife to the hospital to have a baby.

For that matter, Marci couldn’t believe it either.

I hope she thinks it’s funny now. She didn’t at the time.