Everyone has a moment in their life when childhood traditions are put to rest. I vividly remember shopping with my parents around Christmas time. My mother saw a small pinball machine on an endcap and placed it in the shopping cart. I had asked her who she’s getting it for and she gave me the vague response: “family.”
Christmas Day rolled around. My mother gave me box that was wrapped with a white paper with little photos of presents printed on it. I tore it open with delight and saw that it was a small pinball machine. I was not mad, did not enjoy it any less, and I didn’t call my mum a fibber. It was a great present. But at that moment, I looked at the box differently. I realized that presents were no longer brought by ‘Santa’ - I was five years old.
The following year I would come to my next realization that there was no Tooth Fairy.
One morning my father was preparing to go to work. It was about 5:30am and he had turned on the hallway light. The brightness of it shined into my room and woke me. Winter was winding down and spring was slowly emerging. Groggy, I flipped onto my other side and looked outside. The sun was starting to rise and a blue haze of the morning sky made its way into my window.
I could hear the engine of the car running (which my father turned on to warm up the car while he did other things around the house) and the heavy sound of his belt buckle hitting the closet door as he took it off the rack. I shut my eyes tightly to try to fall asleep quicker. The light switch clicked and bright light that shined into my room dimmed to darkness. I rolled onto my back, eased the tightness of my eyelids, and began to drift into sleep again.
A few moments passed. The light switch clicked and the bright light filled the air; again half-waking me. I hear the heavy feet of my father growing louder as he walked towards my room. Shielded me from the light he then reached for my pillow and (anything but gingerly) lifted it - tumbling me over, face first, to the other side of my bed as he shoved money under the pillow.
He walked, heavy footed, out of the door way as I lifted my face from the other pillow. The bright light filled the room again. The sound of his heavy footsteps trudging down the hall began to fade. The switch clicked and the light disappeared. The front door opened and the house shook as it closed. The car door opened and then shut. The lock of the transmission sounded as he put it into gear and drove away.
I turned on the light, lifted my pillow, and was excited to have the dollar that was left behind – the most I had ever received from the “Tooth Fairy.” Maybe it was because he didn’t have change (I typically got a quarter).
By the age of 6, I've said good bye to two iconic traditions of my youth.
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