Tomorrow is the last day of school. Tonight is kindergarten graduation. My daughter’s class is putting on a program rather than doing the caps-n-gowns thing, but I suspect it will be a three-kleenex event, anyway. And I don’t even tend to be that sentimental of a person… it’s just been a long year, for all of us.

Amongst my various tasks for today is to ready the teacher gifts. The gifts? No problem. The cards? I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

Dear Monkey’s teaching team,

Mir and Monkey

I managed to get through that one pretty well, actually. Here is where I lost it:

Dear Chickadee’s teaching team,

Mir and Chickadee

Do you see how hard this is?? I am going to be a complete basket case at graduation tonight.

I have many talents as a mother. I make a mean pot of Kraft macaroni and cheese. I can fix almost anything (well, not in my own life, but for the 10-and-under set I’m a whiz). Sometimes I surprise the kids with something fun. I can keep track of multiple medications and dosage schedules. There is an assortment of character band-aids on hand at all times and I know how to use them. I have eyes in the back of my head. Many, many motherly talents do I possess.

The care and feeding of loose teeth is not part of my repertoire.

I don’t believe there is any sort of instinct for compassionate handling of a 6-year-old who wiggles a tooth all day long, declares it hurts and it needs to come out, but who screams if you touch it. If such an inborn trait exists, I am lacking. My daughter is not impressed with my standard response of “If it hurts, pull it out.” And I suppose that may be why she howls whenever this is the topic at hand and I approach her mouth.

The Tooth Dilemma has been an important kindergarten issue, it turns out. For weeks, then months, the Chickadee’s classmates were wiggling and then losing teeth, while she kept asking when it would be her turn. Finally, about a month before her 6th birthday, we were doing our nightly let’s-check-your-teeth ritual (I would try to wiggle some of her front teeth, all of which were firmly rooted and unbudging) and we found a wiggler. And there was much rejoicing! And I don’t think her hand left her mouth for about three weeks straight! Great was the glory of the loose tooth!

The novelty wore off when the loose tooth became the monstrosity that is a very-loose-but-still-hanging-on-and-hurting-tooth. That lasted about a week, during which time I contemplated sneaking into her room and extracting the tooth while she slept just to stop the whining. And then–on her 6th birthday, no less–she lost her first tooth. At Daddy’s house.

I had a little twinge. Okay, fine, I had a great big surge of “Oh this is just fanfuckingtastic, Fun Daddy gets all the glory once again!” if you want to get technical.

She brought the tooth home, and it took her three days to come to grips with parting with it. I wondered how long the ritual of placing the tooth under the pillow at bedtime followed by a tearful morning-after confession of “I couldn’t do it, Mama!” could last. In the end her love of cash won out, and the Tooth Fairy (having spent the previous nights groping under the Chickadee’s pillow in the dark) finally hit pay dirt and was able to complete her transaction.

I was hoping to rest on my laurels for a while after that, but shortly thereafter the tooth next to the gap started to wiggle. And then a permanent tooth began growing in behind it. Being the caring, sensitive mother that I am, and not wanting to alarm my daughter given this turn of events, I referred to her as Shark Girl and told her if we were lucky, she’d sprout a third row of teeth as well.

After a while, that tooth reached very-loose-but-hanging-on status and the whining once again commenced. One night I was on my way out to choir practice when she was fussing over it, and I offered to pull it out. One gentle tug brought screams (but no tooth). I left amidst tears, wishing the babysitter Godspeed. Well imagine my surpise when I arrived home to hear that the babysitter had pulled it for her. I was relieved, but again… that pang. It just felt like I should’ve been involved somehow.

So when we arrived at the third loose tooth I was certain that I would get it right, this time. I would not frighten her nor call her endearing yet possibly scarring names, and I would know Just The Right Moment to swoop in and catch that tooth as it tumbled from her mouth. But that tooth defied logic and gravity. It could be persuaded to lie perfectly flat both frontwards and backwards, but was still–magically, freakishly!–attached. And tonight, with five minutes before I needed to leave for a meeting at church, I realized that I wasn’t sure I could take another Babysitter Extraction.

I grabbed hold. I began to twist. She began to scream. I chickened out.

Let’s be clear: the Chickadee’s other nickname is the Swan, not as in plastic-surgery-addicted-reality-show-fodder, but as in the one who spends an hour dying in the most melodramatic manner possible. I don’t think I was actually hurting her. But with two strikes against me for inept tooth handling, I didn’t feel comfortable proceeding.

The babysitter showed up. I offered to try again; she declined. I asked the sitter (trying to stay as casual as possible) to please leave the tooth alone. I left for my meeting.

I was less than a mile from the house when my cell phone rang. “Mama, I was waving good-bye to you and it just fell out!”

Craptastic.

It feels like a failing, having missed the actual event not once, not twice, but three times, now. I don’t know why. I don’t remember reading that Real Mamas Catch The Tooth but nonetheless I seem to believe that if I were truly good at this whole mothering thing, I would at least occasionally be witness to the event. Will she remember, when she grows up, that her mother was somehow mysteriously absent for these illustrious milestones? Will it taint her memory of my care of her?

It’s doubtful. But just to be on the safe side, once the fourth tooth gets really loose I think I’ll just put a little piece of duct tape in there any time we have to be apart….

Highlights from my Monday evening:

The Monkey declared “Oh Mama, THANK YOU! This is a dinner of all my most favorite things!” (Yes, I am a whiz with fish sticks, curly fries, and salad. Put the first two in the oven myself, and with the help of a pair of scissors to the corner of the bag, tossed the salad onto the plates.) I was willing to bask in the glow of this unsolicited appreciation, until I realized that after about two bites, the Monkey had stopped eating. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he wasn’t hungry.

The Chickadee regaled us with a tale of how R (a girl in her class) has a sister who’s old enough to be getting married (big news in and of itself), and she is getting married, and so R gets to be in the wedding! So she gets to have a new dress, and new shoes, and probably something new to wear in her hair! I commented that this was very exciting, R must be thrilled. Oh yes, she is, Chickadee agreed. It’s a lot of fun to get to be the flower girl, I said. Oh no, Mama, she’s not the flower girl, that was already taken. Oh, really? Well what is R doing in the wedding, then? Chickadee set down her fork, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and declared, “She’s going to be the reindeer!”

Alrighty then.

Somehow these events set the tone for the night. There was no sense or order to be found. I pleaded with them to finish picking at their dinner. I implored them to get through their showers more quickly, or at the very least, stand under the water instead of off to the side, whining about being soapy. I chased around a naked Monkey with a pull-up, then tried to explain to Chickadee that she’d done a marvelous job of brushing that one 2″ section of hair, but that the rest really needed to be combed out as well. Once I finally had them tucked into bed, I realized we’d forgotten to brush teeth.

I retreated downstairs for my quiet “me time.” The phone rang… it was a good friend I would’ve loved to chat with, but calling from a cell phone in upper Mongolia, from the sound of it. We gave up after about two minutes of “Ar* *** **e** … *el*o? . Then the Monkey was up, saying he couldn’t sleep. Got him settled back down. Came back downstairs. The phone rang again. This time during the course of the call both children got up. Bathroom run for the Chickadee, more complaining about being unable to sleep from the Monkey. Spent fifteen minutes explaining to him that it was not going to be any less dark outside if he was in my bed. Got him settled back down. Came back downstairs. Started to answer some e-mail. Then the Chickadee was up again, saying she couldn’t sleep. While leaving her room, the Monkey called me back in again. Time check: 9:55.

If I see any hint of this happening again tomorrow night, we’re topping off the evening with Benedryl cocktails all around. Sheesh.