Yesterday, G lost a tooth at school. They gave him a neat little treasure chest to put it in, and he dutifully tucked it under his pillow, eager for the Tooth Fairy to visit.
Exhausted after a full day of training, I crawled into bed to rest, and promptly fell asleep. So did GH.
This morning when I went in to wake G up, he presented me with the little green plastic treasure chest, still holding his tooth. He wondered why the Tooth Fairy hadn't come. I felt so bad that tears swam in my eyes as I tried to make up plausible excuses for why the Tooth Fairy hadn't made it. Luckily G concluded that the Tooth Fairy had found the treasure chest to heavy. I vowed to myself that the Tooth Fairy would make it up to him tonight.
Today when I got home, G presented me with another tooth in another small plastic chest. Two teeth in two days. Tonight the Tooth Fairy will have to do triple duty just to make up for her utter lameness of last night.
I hate these moments, the moments of feeling like a complete failure as a mom. It's these magic moments that make childhood so special, and to fail at even one of them is crushing. And my excuse? That I fell asleep? That's the most shameful of all.