National Post (National Edition)
TOOTH FAIRIES and other FRIENDS
Why imaginary pals are essential personnel for your children right now
During the first week of stayat-home orders as a result of COVID-19, the world thrumming with anxiety, my tween daughter lost one of her remaining baby teeth.
My husband, a doctor, is the one who typically tends to our family’s medical needs. But he was busy with work, so this one was all mine.
I stuffed a newly precious square of tissue into the tender red gap between her upper incisors, and afterward, she scrawled something on a yellow Postit note and handed it to me.
“Hi nonexistent tooth fairy. Can I have my money, please. Bye, yo!”
I opened my eyes wide, felt my jaw drop.
“Mommy! You need to give it up already,” she insisted, her hands firmly placed on her hips. “I’m 11 years old. I know it’s you.”
I conceded nothing except to say that she was free to believe what she chose to believe.
For a moment, I considered admitting — if not to her, then at least to myself — that Fairy Gumball, the tooth fairy with whom Emerson had been exchanging letters for nearly six years, was not real.
But I quickly reconsidered.
After all, Fairy Gumball had assumed an integral role in our family’s lives, and it extended far beyond monetary gifts. When Emerson lost her first tooth, she was terrified — of the blood, of the pain, of the relinquishing of what had, moments earlier, been a part of her.
Together, we devised an alternative. In lieu of her tooth, Emerson would leave a handwritten letter to her fairy. “Maybe your fairy will even write back,” I offered, already crafting the missive in my mind.
That night, she scribbled a few wobbly sentences: Dear tooth fairy, this letter is instead of my tooth and wat (sic) is your name? love Emmy. I am Emmy.”
When she awoke the next morning, my daughter discovered she’d been visited by Fairy Gumball, who had left her a crisp “tooth dollar bill” (a $2 bill I’d bought at the bank) sprinkled with fairy dust (electric blue and pink glitter nail polish) and a note introducing herself.
According to the research of folklorists Rosemary Wells and Tad Tuleja, the tooth fairy is a relatively young figure in our culture, having first appeared in story form in the mid 1900s; her purpose was to assuage the fears of children who were terrified to lose a literal piece of themselves. She was brought to life by parents after the Second World War, and, though the details of her employment may vary from household to household, she’s been on the job ever since.
Every lost tooth soon became an opportunity for Emerson to engage with her otherwise elusive pal. Then, one day, she asked whether I thought her fairy would visit even if she hadn’t lost a tooth. She had some questions for her.
“Hmm. I’m not sure. Write her a letter and let’s see.”
Of course, she came. When Emerson struggled socially in first grade, she turned to Fairy Gumball for advice. Do you have friends? Are they nice? Are all of your friends Tooth Fairies or do you know different kinds of Fairies, too?
That night while she slept, Fairy Kit Kat, Fairy Tootsie Pop and Fairy Butterfinger visited along with Fairy Gumball and left letters for Emerson describing themselves: all quite different in appearance and assignment but very much alike in spirit.
In second grade, Emerson decided she hated her gorgeous, wild mane of curls. After sharing with her fairy her wish for long, silky straight hair, Fairy Gumball responded with a drawing of herself: a near-identical reflection of Emerson, but with a head full of rainbow-coloured curls and a magnificent set of wings (or, at least, the best ones I could draw).
At every developmental stage, Fairy Gumball’s life mirrored Emerson’s in some subtle yet significant way, exemplifying how to cope with various childhood concerns or addressing more complex existential questions. (How are Fairies born? Do Fairies ever die?) Rituals were devised, secrets shared, an entire Fairyland forged in Crayola crayons at the request
WE CAN BE BOTH GROUNDED REALISTS AND
DREAMERS
of a curious child. What began as a universal rite of passage evolved into a unique means of contending with uncertainty and change.
I couldn’t have asked for more from a tooth fairy. Then again, this wasn’t my first positive experience with a figment of my imagination. I was a lonely kid who spent much of my childhood on a plane, flying solo between divorced parents. Besides a beloved stuffed animal, I also had Walter, whom I envisioned as a delicate but determined daddy longlegs spider who lived on my shoulder. I knew Walter wasn’t real, but to imagine he was — even if only when I needed him — was like an analgesic for my childhood heartache.
According to experts, however, children who believe in made-up friends or mythical creatures are not necessarily lonely or afraid; they’re simply employing their imaginations. Developmental psychologist Marjorie Taylor, author of the book Imaginary Companions and the Children Who Create Them, has said that having an imaginary companion is surprisingly common and is associated with a tendency to be less shy and more understanding of other people’s perspectives.
When Emerson requested that I give up my fairy ruse, I knew, developmentally, she was right where she needed to be. Leaning into adolescence, she no longer required a fantasy to feel secure. Employing our natural skepticism and questioning what is real and what is true for ourselves are necessary footholds by which we make our way through life’s great transitions. To be mentally healthy, we must understand where fantasy ends and reality begins.
And still, experience proves that, as humans, we can be both grounded realists and starry-eyed dreamers. In fact, I believe, we must be to survive. As Albert Einstein said, “Imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”
With so much loss occurring in the world, I felt like we needed our fairy’s support now more than ever. Especially because Emerson’s anxiety would skyrocket every time she saw her dad in scrubs. Although he is not on the front lines of the pandemic, his work demands that he continue to see patients and perform necessary surgical procedures. This means that Fairy Gumball is not the only one who must enter the house through the side door; she is not the only one we fear may not return.
And yet, over the past month and a half, as I’ve worked to release my own attachments to such a magical chapter in my and my daughter’s lives, I’ve marvelled as she has seamlessly slipped into a more mature version of herself. But then, just the other day, while prodding a wiggly molar with her tongue, Emerson implied that, perhaps, Fairy Gumball could still visit.
“It’s OK if you don’t admit it,” she said to me. “I’ll keep pretending. For you.”
“Thanks, Em,” I said, suppressing a smile. “I appreciate it.”
As we collectively forge our way through the darkness of this global pandemic, it is every parents’ goal to help their children feel protected, cared for and safe. To that very effect, Jacinda Ardern, the prime minister of New Zealand and a mother herself, recently declared that the tooth fairy as well as the Easter Bunny would continue to do their jobs during this period of economic shutdown. Alongside the brave heroes serving on the front lines — medical professionals, public servants, grocery store clerks, postal workers and countless others — we must not forget that our children have their own sort of essential workers, too. Perhaps as parents, keeping them in business is the least we can do for them right now.