The tooth had been wiggly for a few weeks now. Eric kept us well informed with continuous updates on its status. Anticipation for the climactic moment seemed to be quietly welling and he was handling it like a pro.
Then, casually, one morning over eggs and bacon, he shouted his discovery:
"My tooth! It came out!"
He didn't seem to mind the tiny trickle of blood. He was more interested in how we were going to preserve the tooth for the tooth fairy. Luckily, his mother had prepared a perfectly-sized clear plastic jewelry case--just the thing to protect this precious treasure.
It was surely something to be proud of. A badge of honor. He would be the center of attention from his teacher and his friends for a week or so. And it would be an easy subject for adults who wanted to engage him. I have no doubt that seeing his friends endure missing teeth sold him to the fact that losing a tooth was a natural, mostly painless ordeal. That doesn't mean it wasn't still a big deal.
It's times like these I have to pause and remember what it was like first learning about my body. It's natural processes, its healing properties, its unusual idiosyncrasies.
He's getting older now. I feel it so tangibly. He eagerly seizes any opportunity to enlarge the borders of his autonomy. He's still reliant on his parents, of course, but there's the other side to contend with, too: his yearning for new and definitive experiences.
To a child, the clear and monumental watersheds of maturity are not measured by centimeters of growth or the onset of puberty or the assumption of greater responsibilities; no, they are measured in tangible details like lost teeth and goals scored and kisses given or received. And the value of these assets is tangible, too! For Eric, one tooth = 10, 000 Korean won.
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