It was still dark when the knock on the door woke us up.

“I have something very important to tell you!” Our son’s voice was earnest.  “My tooth fell out!”

“That’s great honey.”  I was vaguely pleased that we had mustered up a civil response at that hour.  “Put it on the counter and go back to bed.”  Miracle of miracles, he retreated obediently, and presumably tucked himself back in.

“Dentally retarded,” my dad calls us. Slow to get teeth, and slow to lose them. I was relieved to see the manky old baby tooth quit the scene and make way for a clean adult tooth to emerge.

Hours later I was admiring the gap when I asked Milo what time the tooth had fallen out.  “5:52,” he replied, with the proud precision of a new parent announcing the birth of their child.

A proud Harro tradition is writing the tooth fairy a reminder note. In case you need help interpreting, it says: “To tooth fairy. $2 for Milo please. Thanks.”  He handed it to me with a twinkle.