A little less than one week ago my 6-year-old lost another tooth. (Her fifth, I believe.) She’s very much unlike her older sisters in the fact that she has no problem pulling out her own tooth. Granted, she won’t let daddy or mommy help, but at least wiggling and pulling herself is not a problem, no matter how much blood.
But that night was a rough one. It was about ten minutes before bedtime when she showed me, yet again, her loose tooth. I said something to the effect of, “You know, if you keep wiggling that it will come out soon.” I shouldn’t have said it so close to bedtime.
For the next thirty minutes she stood at the bathroom sink wiggling her incisor. My wife was exhausted and trying to go to sleep, I was trying to get our little one to sleep and the two older sisters were having the time of their lives staying up past bedtime while she dragged out the process. My wife and I kept telling her, “Brush your teeth and go to bed. It can wait until tomorrow.” She simply responded with, “I’m almost done!”
FOR THIRTY, FREAKING MINUTES!
Finally, we hear, “IT’S OUT!”
Then we all clapped and cheered because we don’t want to discourage her from being independent. That, and it was bedtime at last.
Wait a second…
Thirty minutes of, “I’m almost done”
Followed by, “It’s out!”
Followed by cheering.
Yeah, that sounds really familiar, doesn’t it, honey? Okay, maybe not thirty minutes.
You may be wondering about the title I gave this post. Well, I’m thankful my wife puts up with my sick, twisted sense of humor year after year.