I got my first loose tooth around the age of 6, and I could not have been more terrified. A part of my body was dying, it was going to completely detach, and I would lose it forever. No amount of Tooth Fairy stories or assurances that this was a normal rite of passage could soothe me. The end of the world was obviously near.
Operation Keep Mouth Intact was in full effect. I shied away from corn on the cob, apples, or any hard foods. I let my cereal get mushy in milk, which I hated. Applesauce, pudding, and soup made up most of my diet. I didn't dare push the tooth with my tongue... gross.
I'm not sure how long I let this go on, but it was a while. My parents (who thought they were out of earshot) joked about tying a piece of string around my tooth and yanking it out. Just like [their] parents did. I knew they wouldn't dare; I'd put up too much of a fight. This tooth was staying in. Forever.
One day, I was lying on the living room floor watching TV after school. My little brother had just learned to walk, and ambled in from the kitchen. He took one step, then another, then another and another and another faster and faster. It was like his feet were moving too fast for him and he had trouble keeping up. Like a deer in headlights, I froze as this clumsy baby was headed full speed right for me. He started to fall.
Somehow, he managed to do a 180 and landed, butt first, on my face. It didn't hurt; the diaper (and whatever was in it) cushioned the blow.
Then I felt something in my mouth. It was hard, and about the size of a corn kernel.
Oh, no.
I removed my brother's rear from my face, and spit my tooth into my hand. I confirmed with my tongue the now-empty space in my mouth. I stared at the tooth for a while, not knowing how to react. This part of my body fell out, and I'm still alive.
I don't remember what happened next, but I know it involved putting the tooth under my pillow and awakening to a crisp $1 bill. I'm pretty sure I was ok after that.
