The Tooth Fairy

Laura Steckley

"You sneak into children's bedrooms looking for their teeth?"
(ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND THANKS TO MATT)

It has been a busy month, so I’ve only managed a wee shorty.

I remember the first time I saw Hamish; he was out in the yard, the word used for the large, fenced-in black top that the boys stood around in while on break from classes. This could be a difficult space to negotiate, for staff and boys alike. It was one of the worst arenas for sometimes brutally establishing, challenging and re-establishing hierarchy “the boys” hierarchy and, looking back, possibly the staff’s as well.

Hamish stood out for two reasons: he was much smaller than the rest of the boys and he had thick, flaming red hair. He might have been as young as ten, I think, and I immediately felt protective of him. I thought they would eat him for dinner.

As good luck would have it, Hamish was placed in my unit. He was stout, boisterous and had an unusually deep voice for such a little boy. And, there was something immediately likeable about him. What a delightful kid. While he did have the occasional stooshie with other boys, he pretty well held his own and seemed to develop a tolerable place within the pecking order.

Part of what was so likeable about Hamish was his ability to still be a little boy without triggering other boys” tendency to attack or exploit his associated vulnerability. I’m not sure how he did it. It was great fun, giving him piggy back rides or going on woods walks. Hamish did have that stereotypical redhead temper, but even his temper tantrums endeared us to him somehow.

My best memory of Hamish was when one of his teeth fell out and I was on the “sleeping” overnight shift. Hamish still believed in the Tooth Fairy, so it was up to me to support the continuation of this belief. Lucky for me he was a deep sleeper, and after consulting with colleagues, I snuck into his bedroom and, as deftly as possible, slipped a pound coin under his pillow. While I knew enough to check out how much money to leave, I had neglected another, important detail.

The next morning, Hamish was distraught that the Tooth Fairy hadn’t visited him. He was crying and working up to one of his tantrums “shouting about how the Tooth Fairy wouldn’t even want to come to this godforsaken place (probably using a different adjective). I was busy trying to find out what went wrong.

Interestingly, Hamish hadn’t even been concerned about the money. He was upset because the thick wadge of toilet paper in which he had carefully planted his precious tooth was still under his pillow when he awoke. Apparently in Scotland, the Tooth Fairy takes the tooth and leaves money in exchange. In the corner of the world where I grew up, she left the tooth and the money.

I had to think quickly. I asked Hamish to let me see the wadge so that I could check whether the tooth was actually still nestled inside. The next step required distraction and sleight of hand. I asked Hamish to double check under the pillow in case there was indeed money there while I opened up the toilet paper, shifting the tooth between two fingers and then into my pocket, all the while proclaiming the wadge to be empty. This kind of thing is not at all my forte, but somehow I was able to pull it off: pound coin found; toilet paper returned for inspection; magic of the Tooth Fairy still in tact.

Whew!

Within cultures that are risk averse, blaming and fixated on the potential for false allegation, Tooth Fairy duty can seem dangerous. Yet my biggest worries were whether I’d forget, accidentally awaken Hamish or otherwise spoil the magic for him. And it was a close call.

There is a real danger that the magic of being a kid is being killed “not just by the myriad of difficulties that rob kids of being kids, but by the institutions that are meant to serve them. But I imagine that, if you’re reading this, you know this already. So, hats off to those of you who carve out that bit of protected space for all of those magical moments with your kids. May they fortify you to continue.