It was humid in the morning. Asher skipped down the steps, a finger inside his wide grin.
“Mommy, look! This tooth is really loose.”
At the kitchen table, Shaya stood pudgy in his shorts pajamas. “Breakfast? Me have breakfast?”
I pulled down small boxes of sugary cereals – Shabbat cereals, the ones they get only on special days. Shaya grabbed a Froot Loops. “With milk! In a bowl!”
“When your tooth falls out, make sure you let me know,” I said. “I’ll have to call the tooth fairy.”
“You don’t have to call the tooth fairy,” Asher said. “She already knows.”
“Ok. But she’s busy. I want to make sure she does.”
Later, he rummages through the kitchen junk drawer.
“What are you looking for?”
“Your phone book.”
“Who do you want to call?”
“I want to see the tooth fairy’s phone number.”
“It’s written in special ink that’s invisble to kids,” I said. “It’s purple. Only adults can read it. Shall I show you?”
The day was hot by then, and I closed the windows. Bright sun streamed in through the glass.
It was a day later that we sat on the edge of the porch, a less humid day, a less hot day, and Shaya slept in the stroller under a Japanese maple tree. On the porch, Eliana ate creme brulee ice cream in a bowl. Asher chewed mint gum.
I opened the brown leather phone book to T.
“See?” I pointed at a blank line.
Asher and Eliana peered close. They inched next to me, their noses almost touching the page.
“There it is – tooth fairy, here’s her phone number, then her email, isn’t that a pretty purple ink?” God I was having fun. They squinted at the page.
“Can I read it when I’m 13?” asked Asher. Sharp kid. A Jewish male becomes an adult at 13.
“Nope,” I said. “The tooth fairy operates by American standards. 18.”