Pretend is our friend

I swear, the tooth fairy is getting entirely too old for this, or at least the tooth-donator is. But I can't cut her off, she who clings to childhood fantasy and a stuffed koala while her body races ahead. In the meantime, though, easing through the beaded doorway curtain and picking my way across a cluttered floor--who's raising this kid, anyway?--is not exactly a treasured moment in my mothering time, unless it is. It's a sigh of relief that I didn't forget, a hasty search for some singles, some sleepy strategizing at the foot of her bed. She's a sleep walker and a sleep talker, and when she stirred and muttered something incomprehensible that ended with, "what do you think of that?" I thought I was busted for sure. Such an odd ritual, the voluntary mission impossible. As if I need five minutes more stress before bed. But she settled, and I tried again, finally fished out that overpriced tooth and escaped back out the door. Night, baby. Big girl. I don't know what we're going to do with you come Christmastime, but I'll play along with you if you want. Sure I will.