Last night, at around two in the morning, I woke to the sound of weeping. My son sat on the floor, his carefully-crafted note to the tooth fairy crumpled in his hand, his four shiny quarters on the floor.
He looked up at me.Tried to smile. Sucked about a half a cup of snot into his nose.
The tooth fairy was his ace in the hole. She was a hot tip on an unbeatable horse. She was the antique spoon that was sure to rake in a half-a-mil at auction because it was once used for slurping baby food into the infant mouth of George Washington or Bonny Prince Charlie or whatever.
The tooth fairy let him down.
Which means, of course, that I let him down.
“Four quarters,” I said helpfully. “That’s the same as a dollar. That means you’re one fourhundredth away from your goal!” My words were hollow. They were broken glass. They scattered from my mouth and fell dead upon the floor.
Leo rested his forehead on his knees. He sighed a great sigh.
“The tooth fairy,” he said, slowly lifting his head and tilting his face to the heavens, “is
Then, he left his note on the floor and went to bed.
He didn’t even want to look at his quarters.
As I said before. Meanest mom. Right here. Destroying hopes and killing dreams right left and center. Perhaps I should get some kind of certificate or something.