By Shannon Whitmore 
I might have missed my son’s last Christmas with Santa. I was there, and I watched it happen, but it never occurred to me that it might be his last. I wasn’t able to appreciate it for what it was—the end of an era. My days as Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny might be coming to an end. My son has begun to ask questions I don’t want to answer.
My son lost his fifteenth baby tooth two days ago, and now I’m wondering if this is it. He’s nearly 10 now, and I know some of his friends don’t believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny—but he still does. His eyes still light up when he sees the mounds of gifts under the Christmas tree, the cookie crumbs, and that last sip of milk (why doesn’t Santa ever finish his milk?). He still runs out of his room to tell me the Tooth Fairy left him money for his baby teeth. He still joyfully searches the house for the eggs hidden by the Easter Bunny. My son still believes.
But he’s asking more questions. He’s noticing the slip-ups made by his friends, who are supposed to keep the secret, but are still nine and really not the best secret-keepers. He’s not sure if it makes sense that bunnies deliver eggs, that reindeer can fly, or that there’s some random fairy with a tooth obsession. Magic doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore as an answer to every question. And then there was the recent perfect storm that’s been brewing over our house.
It started with Daylight Saving Time. Suddenly, no one was sleeping through the night anymore. We could hear the soft patter of little feet as they left their bedrooms to go to the bathroom, or to tell me about a nightmare they had, or to say that they just can’t go back to sleep. Then my son lost that fifteenth baby tooth. He put out his Tooth Fairy pillow, with his tooth tucked safely inside. He fell asleep dreaming of dollar bills and fairy wings. But then he woke up and needed to use the bathroom at 11 p.m. His sister had a nightmare at midnight. He heard scary noises outside at 1 a.m. And then one Tooth Fairy (the male one) finally gave up and went to sleep for the night without consulting the other Tooth Fairy (the female one). And so, through a series of unfortunate events, no Tooth Fairy ever showed. My son found his tooth, still tucked safely into his fairy pillow, when he woke up the next morning.
He wasn’t overly upset when he told me. He seemed to accept our explanation that because people kept waking up in our house, the Tooth Fairy had to skip it for the night (I thought that explanation was better than the other one my husband came up with: the Tooth Fairy doesn’t work on Tuesdays). When he fell asleep the next night, he stayed asleep, the Tooth Fairy visited, and my son was thrilled with his money when he woke up.
But I can’t forget the little shadow of doubt on his face when he told us she hadn’t come. I can’t forget how he nodded along, a slight pout on his lips, as if he was trying to accept an excuse he knew was a lie. It was a lie he still wanted to believe, so he chose to ignore his doubts. But I can’t ignore them. I can’t forget them. I can’t help but think that this is just another crack in the façade of childhood fantasies I have fought to preserve for so long. How much longer do I have? He’s growing up too quickly, and I’m just not ready for it.
I just want one more Christmas. I want to share in his joy and awe one last time before he stops believing. I had no idea when I put out the milk and cookies last year, when I arranged their Christmas gifts, that it might have been my last year as Santa Claus. For the past few months, every lost tooth has been both a cause of joy and sorrow. Each one is further evidence that my son is growing up. They are proof that my little boy is not so little anymore. All children have to grow up eventually, but I didn’t realize how suddenly it would happen. Or maybe it was because it was so gradual, I didn’t realize it was happening until he walked out of his bedroom one morning, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Good morning.” He doesn’t need to look up at me anymore. We’re nearly the same height now.
My little boy is not all grown up yet. He’s not even 10. We still have so many years of childhood and adolescence to enjoy. But I can still feel his childhood slipping away, sliding between my fingers as I desperately try to hold onto it. But we’re not supposed to cling. We’re supposed to let our children grow up under our watchful eye. We’re supposed to watch as our children flourish and take their place in the world.
Watching our children grow up is one of the greatest joys and sorrows we experience as mothers. I will mourn the passing of childhood even as I eagerly anticipate my son’s future. And caught between the past and the future as I am, I will enjoy every lost tooth, every hidden egg, and every gift from Santa Claus while I have them.
by Her View From Home 
by Aliette Silva 
