The privileged position of being the Tooth Fairy parallels that of a Hollywood actress: it is a fleeting career ended cruelly by the disappearance of youth.

At the ripe old age of 10 my daughter knows I am the Tooth Fairy, though she wishes she didn't. She dutifully plays along, yet now I am sure she is determined to catch me. I am prepared.
She is my third child and I have perfected this act. Still, with each performance there is a fresh challenge. Having lost her tooth this morning, she carried it around showing everyone before she actually lost it. This required a thorough search of the house on my hands and knees. (I must mention here that this is an incredible feat on my part, for I am just one week post-op from an appendectomy!) Failing to find the tooth, I collapsed into bed, exhausted. Immediately, my sweet daughter skipped into my bedroom and announced, “Guess what? I found my tooth! It was right here in my pocket the whole time!” I felt like throwing a tantrum the likes of one of those spoiled child actors, but I remembered my lines. “That's GREAT, honey!”

I am a professional.

She then proceeded to make a large, bomb-proof container to hold her tooth safely until bedtime. I know she intends to catch me, as I am sure I heard maniacal giggling coming from her bedroom as she put on the final layer of duct tape.

I am prepared.

After bedtime, I decide not to chance falling asleep on the job and load up on caffeine. (Like any self-respecting actress, I vow to go to detox soon.) Though my wardrobe lacks the traditional fairy garb, I take my role seriously. Tonight I wear Ninja black.

I am invisible.

Well after midnight the house seems sufficiently quiet to accomplish my task. I turn off all the lights. Bad idea. In my daughter's room I encounter an obstacle course of toys which were not there when I came for a reconnaissance hug! After loudly tripping over a large paper sack, I retreat. Quietly turning on the hall light, I proceed in a “Mission Impossible” style. She startles me by rolling over and moaning, and I duck. Crouched beside her bed, I wait an eternity before finally recovering the jewel. Success! I replace the package with an identical one- complete with duct tape- containing the traditional thank you note and money. (Two can play this game!) I slip back to my room under the cover of white noise from the air conditioner. I feel like Jackie Chan must after doing his own stunts.

I am a professional.

Lying in bed, happy with tonight's performance, I reflect on the swift passage of my daughter's childhood. Being a parent is indeed the role of a lifetime. I am fortunate to have four children. This Tooth Fairy will soon be called back for an encore performance, for just this evening my youngest child discovered her first wiggly tooth.

I am prepared.