My child lost her last baby tooth and I’m not ready for what’s next

My son got in the car after school last week and slammed the door.

“How was your day, baby?” I asked.

“Damn,” he said, then took something out of his pocket. I watched as he opened his hand. Inside was a handkerchief; inside the tissue was a molar.

Immediately, my mind went to my wallet. Do I have cash? I’ve started using Apple Pay for just about everything, but the Tooth Fairy is still stuck in 2001 and constantly needs an ATM. In recent years, she has, in a pinch, traded teeth for coupons, currency found at the bottom of suitcases, and, on one memorable evening, a gold necklace (which I still haven’t gotten back).

“Yeah,” he said, as I desperately tried to remember if I had searched his piggy bank last time or if there was still something inside. “It is the last. Remember? The dentist said I only had one tooth left to fall out.

I almost braked suddenly. How is it possible ? After years of looking for change around the couch cushions, debating with my husband what to do with baby teeth (he was Team Keep, I was Team Dump; in the end, he won but I have no idea where they are or where they live in constant fear of rummaging through a random jar and finding them), setting alarms for 11pm only to sleep through and then having to. making a mad dash for money in the room during breakfast, followed by a white lie of “Hmmm, are you sure you looked everywhere? Maybe check again” – after all This time, this phase of my parenting life is now over.

On the one hand, I’m relieved. I think people fall into two camps when it comes to teeth: those who aren’t bothered by the fact that we go through a stage of development where bits of hard, mineralized tissue that have already passed through our gums fall out and then grow back; and normal people, like me, who think teeth are just gross. I’m really disgusted by the sight of a wonky tooth. For years my children used this knowledge to terrorize me, but not anymore. I am finally free from the dental tyranny to which I have been subjected for so long.

But on the other hand: it feels like a real definitive end to childhood, unlike other milestones.

It’s not like it was abrupt. Having 12 year old twins, a boy and a girl, has us heading towards adolescence for some time now. Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo and Agua de Violetas are long gone., replaced with acne-targeting scrubs and Dove deodorant (I drew the line at Ax body spray). We talk about bras and periods and discuss fake news and climate change. I know that my babies, although they will always be my babies, are not babies anymore. But for some reason, losing that last tooth sent me into a tailspin.

When the twins were born, five weeks early and with the support of a team of medical professionals and cutting-edge science, I was overwhelmed by the idea of ​​becoming a parent. I wasn’t ready to take care of humans, especially little ones and new ones who needed constant feeding and never seemed to sleep.

I remember a conversation I had with my aunt, a mother of three, when my children were about 4 months old. We were exhausted, as a group home, although the twins seemed to be doing better than my husband and I, who also felt like crying about 10 times a day. “When does it get easier?” I asked him. “Maybe around 4,” she told me, and then I cried again because four years might as well have been 100 years.

“But everything is a phase,” she continued, with a perspective I couldn’t understand at the time. “This phase will pass.”

Not surprisingly, she was right. It was all just a phase, and as one gave way to the next, it was clear that each had its pros and cons. No sooner was I celebrating the end of diapers than I had to make time for consistent potty breaks. I couldn’t wait for the first steps to arrive, and once they did, I contemplated becoming a mother who kept her children on a leash (no judgment, just awe at the brilliance of this invention , especially when toddlers are navigating Disney World.)

But these early stages, while distinct from each other, required more or less the same type of parenting skills: keeping them healthy, giving them enough vegetables, keeping them alive. Moving into preadolescence required an entirely different expertise. This feels like a completely new phase of parenting – one that I am, in general, completely unequipped to enter.

I read an article the other day (OK, fine, it was an Instagram post) that said something like “parenting teenagers requires moving from manager to consultant.” As a former consultant, this analogy kind of blew my mind. When you’re a manager, you’re responsible for everything from strategy to execution. Your job in managing your children and their lives is to run the show, get things done, and help them achieve their goals, but ultimately the responsibility falls on you. You’re a benevolent dictator, who doesn’t sweat as you negotiate just three extra bites before dessert, floss their teeth the night before a dentist appointment, and skillfully plan playdates with the kids whose kids you love. parents. You are responsible. It’s a good feeling.

But don’t let this control go to your head, because it doesn’t last: at some point you have to commit to a peaceful transfer of power, in the style of George Washington (who, by the way, was not no stranger to losing teeth). To become a consultant, you need to advise and offer advice, a shoulder to cry on, and all the wisdom you have. But your children, now your customers, will take it or leave it. And in return, they’ll probably yell at you all the time.

Teenagers have to make their own mistakes and, according to experts, you’re supposed to just sit back and let that happen; failure is vital for development and for helping adolescents become adults. I’m sure the experts are right, but I’d rather have a root canal every day than watch my kids suffer.

Ultimately, this new phase, like the others, is about figuring out how to move on. I can’t even imagine what’s next to come – the ups and downs of teenage hormones, the first broken hearts and first hangovers and (if I don’t anchor them forever) finally leaving home. As I say goodbye to the baby teeth stage of my parenting journey, I try as much as possible to hold on to this wise perspective offered by my aunt: Every phase is a phase. The new ones will be full of joys that I cannot yet understand.

Before going to bed on last tooth night, I asked my son if he had put his tooth under the pillow for the tooth fairy. He arched an eyebrow at me.

“Mom, I know there’s no tooth fairy,” he said. I looked at him, my baby who is no longer but still my baby, the tiny wisps of mustache forming on his upper lip and gave him a kiss on the forehead that he, miraculously, didn’t push away.

“Well, you might as well pull his tooth out anyway – you know, just in case.”

“No. I think you’d better keep your money,” he said firmly, telling me what to do for once. “I heard braces are going to be expensive.”

This article was originally published on TODAY.com