There is a particular grown-up feeling with the first feeling of a wobbly tooth...especially if, like my two boys, you are possibly the last boy in the class without a gap. A six year old can measure his importance by how many teeth are gone. With the full 20 milk teeth, you lose out on thrusting conversations with your pals - the game involved in guestimating how long the tooth will last from first wobble to ejection, to how many euros has been collected from the tooth fairy and of course, what violent act caused the tooth's ultimate demise.
No 2 has been checking regularly for the possibility of even the remotest wobble and last week a tiny wobble was confirmed. It took a week or so to gather its north-south momentum and at last on Sunday it was hanging out by its last sinew. The sweet little fellow mulled over the various merits of leaving it fall out itself versus having it pulled. Being a thinker, he considered the potential pain of a final wrench so being practical he took matters into his own hands and the wee little tooth had its last moment. To see the joy on his victorious little face while holding a miniture, redundant tooth in his hand is one of those moments that you consign to memory. Yet, there is a wistful twin memory of the day that little 'tooteny-pegger' suggested its presence with a tiny white glint and confirmed its presence under the knock of a steel spoon in Summer 2004....and that was after a good few weeks of disturbed nights, several mls of liquid paracetamol and painful, throbbbing gums. For all that effort it just about lasted 6 years. 6 years and 2 months. And a damn good job done.