She avoids brushing her teeth, the bottom central incisor hanging on by tender roots, too delicate for her seven-year-old sensibilities. She eats oatmeal and yogurt, asks for Tylenol to dull the constant ache and budding anxiety. “I don’t think I can go to school today,” she announces, brow stern, eyes pained. “My tooth, it just hurts too much.” We convince her, mouth still full of baby teeth yet to be discarded, in order to finish elementary school before adulthood she’ll have to learn to endure.

The first tooth was lost in dramatic fashion on a cross country trail in the middle of Washington’s Methow Valley. Our family paused for a snack of dried mango, parents and three children irritable from a wrong turn, traveling on rented skis much farther than anyone intended. Gnawing on the leathery fruit, our eldest suddenly exclaimed. Her mouth ajar just an inch, thumb and forefinger gripped a tiny nubbin, crimson blood dripping onto the late winter snow. We celebrated and paid her the going rate. Some friends said a dollar, others said two.

Now at home, her second loose tooth dangles and each day is a struggle. She can’t eat this, can’t brush that. I venture a suggestion: maybe Mama could help wiggle it out?

I remember my own dad reaching into my barely open mouth, gripping onto my jiggly tooth; the anticipation, the rush with extraction. My own daughter is crying now, she craves resolution but is loathe to let me complete a task that could cause even momentary agony.

“Use a tissue!” she cries. I defer to her wishes and lay a tissue over her dangling incisor as she backs away from me, eyes wild as if I am a monster from a nightmare that once haunted her slumber. I speak gently, grip firmly, twist slightly and then it’s out.

Her eyes brighten instantly, her mouth widens with an authentic grin. She forgets about the blood, the raw nerves, grabs the tooth from me and rushes downstairs to write a note to the fairy, requesting an exchange for funds. She’s saving up for a unicycle, likes to hand cash to the homeless people holding cardboard signs on the city streets. She bounds down the stairs with her treasure in hand, carefully scribes her request, tucking it under her pillow in anticipation.