Clare's Dad

The Age of Reason

One of the hardest parts of watching a child grow up may be their loss of belief in all things magical. With Clare, although she’s almost nine years old, we’ve adopted a sort of don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. She doesn’t ask about Santa, the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, and Clare’s Mom and I go on as if Clare were still three or four years old. One day—when she’s as old as we are—Clare won’t have to ask; she’ll know for a fact that there is a Santa Claus. This post was written on January 31, 2008. It was the week that Clare lost her first tooth—right down the bathroom drain.

The Tooth Fairy did visit earlier this week in spite of the missing tooth. Clare wasn’t all that bothered that the tooth fell down the drain. I guess if you can believe that a little magical being comes into your bedroom during the night and switches your tooth for a buck or two, you can believe that she’ll accept a note. To be safe, Clare’s Mom did write a note too—that was actually Clare’s idea.

For a first tooth, it cost us five bucks. (I think we’ll go down to one for the rest.) It’s also costing me a bit of my sanity as I try to keep up with Clare’s questions.

“What does the Tooth Fairy look like?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her. I really couldn’t think of any Tooth Fairy standard. In The Santa Clause 3, the Tooth Fairy was even a guy—I was pretty glad Clare didn’t remember that one. “I don’t think anybody has ever seen her.”

“How does she get in?”

I didn’t want to back myself into the whole chimney discussion, so I told Clare that since the Tooth Fairy is so tiny she must just fly in somehow.

“How do you know she’s tiny if you’ve never seen her?” This kid is a better lawyer than I was.

“Aren’t all fairies small?” I asked in return. I was pretty proud of turning that one around.

“Cinderella’s fairy godmother isn’t small.” I’ll be making her pay for her own law school tuition.

“Maybe,” I answered, “fairies can make themselves small or big.”

“Oh.”

I got out of that one by the skin of my teeth—pun intended.

This kind of discussion is happening too often. I can almost see the wheels turning in Clare’s head as she asks questions. She’s on the edge of reason—when curiosity, intelligence, reading, and older kids on the school bus all converge to threaten her belief in magic and put an end to her innocence.

“Why doesn’t Santa bring as many toys to poor kids?”

The wheels are turning.

“Does the Easter Bunny make the candy or buy it?”

The wheels are turning.

“How is Mickey Mouse at Disney World, Disneyland and on the Disney ship all at the same time?”

The wheels are turning.

I wish I could make those wheels turn back in the other direction, but that would be about as easy as making a lost tooth stay in Clare’s mouth. As long as she believes, I’ll keep my wheels turning too to answer every question she throws at me. Reason can wait. And sanity be damned.