Star Gazing

On Saturday night, the sky was filled with stars. I walked under them without seeing, my head too full of obligations, trivial concerns, and to-do lists.

“Mom, that do you see that one right there?” My daughter stood frozen on the back porch, her index finger aimed at the sky. “That’s my lucky star. I made a wish and it came true.”

I pretended to know exactly which star she was pointing to, but in fact, her pointing simply directed me to the sky and I was mesmerized by what I’d failed to notice -- a sea of sequins on a backdrop of black.

“What was your wish?” I asked.
Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. “I can’t tell. Star wishes are secret!”
I smiled. Star wishes --- it’s been a long time.

Later that evening I tucked my daughter into bed and she hugged her new stuffed pig close to her chest.

“My wish wouldn’t have come true without you,” she told the pig.
I waited, confused.
“Piggie is a SHINING STAR stuffed animal,” she said, flipping his hoof to show me the silver star stuck to the bottom. “When you have a SHINING STAR, you get to make special wishes.”

The childhood ritual of wishing on stars has been, for my child, corrupted by commercialism. Instead of seeing the magic in a twinkling light, she has equated star-gazing with owning the toy-0f-the-week. Those who own the toy have “the power.” I couldn’t let this slide.

“Stars have their own magic,” I told her. “SHINING STARS are just a reminder to look around you and notice when magic happens. Even if you don’t have a SHINING STAR, you can make wishes on stars. I never had a SHINING STAR, but I made lots of wishes on real stars, and sometimes my wishes came true.”
She nodded with the wisdom of six, and put her piggie to the side.
“What did you wish for? What came true?” she asked.
A piece of me wanted to parrot: “Star wishes are secret!”
But her eyes were wide with curiosity and wonder, and I decided to tell her:

“One time I wished for a daughter with a wonderful imagination who believes in magic all around us.”

She smiled and gave me a big hug. “I guess your wish DID come true. You got me!”

After tucking her in, I went back on the porch and watched a star race across the night. I haven’t actually seen a shooting star in years.

I tried to push my to-do lists out of my mind and focus on just one thing -- the contrast between black and the white. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the Autumn night fill my head. And I made a wish.

I’d tell you what it was, but I can’t: “Star wishes are secret.”

The Tooth Fairy Bites the Dust

I think I killed the Tooth Fairy. I didn’t do it intentionally -- really, I didn’t. But her death was both untimely and unpretty.

Last week my six year old lost her first tooth. Unfortunately, her loss came on the same day that she gained another pound of “teen attitude”. All day we had been butting heads:

“I’d like you to make your bed.”
“And I’d prefer not to, thank you.”

Huh?

Anyway, at about nine in the morning, she presented with a very, very slightly loose tooth. I told her to leave it alone and let it loosen over time. So she, of course, played with it all day and eventually yanked it out during dinner. (Much to the ‘delight’ of my blood-phobic son...)

Although I was frustrated and furious, I did my best to muster some enthusiasm for this momentous occasion. I took her little tooth (actually, I find teeth kind of disgusting...) and held it up like a treasure.

“Wow! The tooth fairy is going to LOVE this one.”
Her face fell. “I’m not giving it to her,” she said.
“But if you leave it under your pillow, she will come and give you a shiny gold coin!”
“I’m mad at her.”
“Why?” I couldn’t imagine.
“Because when we lose teeth, she only gives us a dollar. But when Alison lost a tooth, she got five dollars. That’s not fair.”

I wanted to strangle Alison’s mother for failing to initiate a “tooth fairy conference” on “equal pay for equal work....”

I was about to say something, when my husband interrupted. “I’ll give her a call and address that problem.”

We all stared dumbly.

“You have the Tooth Fairy’s phone number?” My eight-year old said, looking doubtful.

I couldn’t control myself. I started to laugh at my husband’s inane comment. And then out of nowhere I found these words slipping out of my mouth: “Yea, right. The Tooth Fairy has an iPhone and Dad’s been IM-ing her all week!”

My savvy son picked up on my sarcasm. “She does have an iPhone,” he said, matter-of-factly. The pause was just long enough for dramatic effect. “You carry it in your purse every day, Mom.”

The cat was out of the bag.

I gazed at my innocent daughter, expecting tears, anguish, and heartbreak. But she simply pasted on her new jack-o-lantern grin and held out her hand for the bloodied tooth.

“You owe me five bucks, Mom. Or else give me back my tooth.”

I tried to backpedal my way out of the situation, but it was way too late. The tooth fairy was dead and buried. So, I paid my daughter the five dollars -- out of guilt, mostly -- and put the offensive body part in a ‘treasure box’ in my dresser. (Afterall, what kind of mother swiftly annihilates a treasured childhood icon with biting sarcasm? Perhaps that little sharp nub will serve as a reminder to bite my tongue...)

In the end, my kids were fine with the demise of the mythical fairy who steals bloodied bits of dislodged bone. But guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I found myself thinking about Peter Pan. I laid in bed, quietly clapping my hands, muttering a tiny apology to the evening stars: “I do believe in fairies! I do! I believe...”