There is a certain advantage to living in a house filled with cynical children. Take Easter, for example: my children understand that, in all likelihood, the Easter Bunny isn’t going to bring them squat. However, they also understand that three days after Easter, when all of the leftover chocolate is on sale, they’ll make out like kings. (My only religious belief is “Blessed are the Very, Very Cheap, for they shall inherit all of the 75% off candy.”)
True, this type of Easter celebration does lose some of the charm (because, really, who doesn’t like the idea of a rabbit running around your house leaving behind little chocolate versions of himself?), but it also cuts down on the hypocrite factor, since, as atheists, we can’t even claim to be resurrecting a lovely old Druidic ceremony like celebrating the vernal equinox when we celebrate Easter. No, the truth is, in our house we celebrate Easter for the same reasons we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, or Cinco de Mayo; the only difference is that, with Easter, the motivation is chocolate, while with St. Patty’s and Cinco, it’s Guinness and Tecate.
Still, there are certain disadvantages to living in a house filled with cynics as well. Take the tooth fairy. Owing to their cynicism–and the fact that, being freaks of nature, neither one of them lost their first tooth until they were well past the age of seven–my kids have never for a moment believed in the tooth fairy. And yet, they still expect the cash. (I can’t say that I blame them; after all, it is fairly distressing when parts of your body start leaving you–who wouldn’t want a little cold, hard cash to ease the pain? As I get older, I know that I would certainly appreciate even a symbolic monetary gift from the bifocal fairy, or maybe the orthopedic shoe insert gnome. Something, you know, for the effort.)
And speaking of “something for the effort:” it would be nice if, at least as far as the Tooth Fairy was concerned, my kids tried to fake it. But alas: they see no point in pretending to believe in something just to collect their cash. And I must admit, I can’t really blame them. After all, they’ll be in the workforce soon enough, where they’ll have to pretend they agree with nonsense every day just to collect their paychecks–why rush it now? And yet, I still can’t but help but feel a little melancholy about the way it’s all turned out.
Here’s how it usually goes down. The tooth falls out (usually at school, the result of showing the kid sitting next to them the old “swinging gate” trick one too many times), the nurse (or her stand-in–remember the budget cuts) puts it in a ziploc (the generic version; again–budget cuts), and the tooth is then brought home to me, where it is unceremoniously exchanged for a crisp new dollar bill (actually, a handful of change–there are budget cuts at home, too).
There is no reaching under of pillows, no stumbling in the dark–nothing. It has all the charm of a drug deal. And not even an illegal drug deal, which at least has a certain illicit thrill. No, this is more like buying medical marijuana. From a Republican.
Of course, at least this way I don’t have to hide the teeth. (Yes, I keep them. I paid for them, didn’t I?). And my kids don’t have to wonder, when they find the bag of teeth in my underwear drawer, if their mother is a secret serial killer.
Well, not much, anyway.
And besides, someday when they are both Goth teens getting chased out of Heritage Square they’ll be able to impress their fellow loiterers with their groovy tooth necklaces.
That is, if all that 75% off Easter candy hasn’t rotted them all away by then.