I think grown ups should receive some kind of medal for reaching the end of Friday in one piece. There should be a ceremony, cake, and everything. If you manage to make it to several Fridays in a row, the size of the cake should increase – maybe the medal too.
Quite how I managed to scrape myself out of bed this morning is something of a mystery – given that I didn’t actually *go* to bed until 2am. I would like to say this was because I was burning the midnight oil on some important project, or got sucked into a wonderful movie. Nothing of the sort. Our youngest’s tooth fell out two days ago, and we forgot to do the whole tooth fairy thing.
The anticipation of the arrival of the tooth fairy apparently ranks right up there with Father Christmas, and the Easter Bunny. Who knew? She didn’t fall properly asleep until 2am.
And that’s when we found the complaint letter.
Miss 11 had written a letter of complaint to the tooth fairy, saying she was very disappointed. Given her various developmental delays, we were stunned. She had quietly (and secretly) written the letter off her own back, and posted it under the edge of her pillow, along with the tooth.
I suggested to my other half that the tooth fairy should return fire – perhaps mentioning that she had sat outside the window for two hours waiting for her to fall asleep before giving up again.
It’s all our own fault really. When she was about three years old I walked into her bedroom as my other half was reading stories to the children, and fired an LED light from a keyring around the room. She nearly exploded out of bed – pointing at the light as it whizzed around the room:
There was also the time when we stayed at my parents in Cornwall at easter, and woke the children to do their first easter egg hunt. One of them heard my parents walking through the house (putting forgotten easter eggs out). Of course we told them the footsteps were the Easter Bunny. Of course they told everybody they met about it for the next few weeks.
Then of course there was last Christmas – when Father Christmas (my Dad) called from the Sleigh late on Christmas Eve to get directions. My Mum played sleigh bells in the background while Dad bellowed through the wind and rain at the phone. Miss 11 stood in full Peter Pan pose in the middle of the living room, eyes like saucers, shouting her conversation with Santa at the phone handset.
We’re wondering how many more years we can keep the stories and the excitement going. Our eldest was let in on the secret many years ago, and has revelled in playing the game with her younger sisters. Our middle girl suspects, but doesn’t want to stop believing – just in case it IS true.
I think perhaps our youngest will always believe. We’ve done too good a job.