What to Do When Your Kid Writes a Letter to the Tooth Fairy: Parenting Tips for Magic and Big Feelings
It’s 8:17 PM, the dishwasher is humming in the next room, and there are Goldfish crumbs ground into the gap between our kitchen table legs. My 7-year-old Lila is hunched over a sheet of sparkly pink construction paper, gluing googly eyes to the border of something she won’t let me see. She lost her first top molar an hour earlier, wrapped it in a crumpled napkin after spitting it into my palm, and announced she had important business before bed.
When she finishes, she holds it up, chest puffed. It’s a letter, addressed to The Tooth Fairy, in wobbly capital letters that bleed through the paper. She reads it out loud for me: “Dear Tooth Fairy, I lost my tooth. My best friend Mia moved to Oregon 2 months ago and I don’t have anyone to play unicorns with at recess. Can you please bring me a new friend who likes purple as much as me? Thank you. Love, Lila.”
I open my mouth to say the first thing that pops into my head: Honey, the Tooth Fairy can’t bring people, that’s impossible. But I stop. Last spring, she asked the Easter Bunny for a live baby bunny, and I told her straight we couldn’t have one, and that the Easter Bunny couldn’t bring live animals anyway, and she cried so hard she threw up her dinner and refused to go to school the next day. She wouldn’t talk about why she wanted the bunny that bad, not for weeks, but I noticed she started sleeping with Mia’s old stuffed rabbit every night after that anyway.
I tuck her into bed, she shoves the napkin with the tooth and the letter under her pillow, reminds me three times not to forget to leave the hallway light on for the Tooth Fairy. I go downstairs, lean against the fridge, and stare at my half-finished work to-do list for 10 minutes. A lot of the parenting content I see says we shouldn’t do the whole myth thing, that it teaches kids to distrust you when they find out it’s fake. Other people say it’s harmless fun, just go with it. But this wasn’t just fun. This was a request.
I realized then that Lila hadn’t actually asked me for help finding a new friend. Every time I asked if she was sad about Mia moving, she just shrugged and said “it’s fine.” She wouldn’t talk about recess, wouldn’t talk about missing late-night pizza playdates. But she could ask the Tooth Fairy. That’s the thing about 7-year-olds: big, messy feelings are too big to fit into words to your mom sometimes. It’s easier to give them to magic.
I didn’t have to come up with some big, elaborate lie. I remembered we’d driven past the community center a week earlier, and Lila pointed to the poster for after-school art classes and said she wanted to go. I’d pushed it off, because my work schedule is wonky and I wasn’t sure I could make it work every week. I grabbed a scrap of notebook paper from the counter, scribbled a reply in messy handwriting that I made a little loopy to sound “fairy-like”: “Dear Lila, Thanks for your tooth! It’s very shiny. I can’t bring you a new friend to put under your pillow—all friends need their own beds and their own snack cabinets, and that would be very squishy. But I know a girl who loves purple glue and unicorn stickers just as much as you do. She goes to the Tuesday art class at the community center. Ask your mom to take you next week. I left extra money for a new box of crayons to share. Love, The Tooth Fairy.” Then I stuffed $10 under the pillow instead of the usual $5, and called it a night.
Lila came barrelling down the stairs at 6:30 AM the next morning, waving the letter, screaming so loud our dog ran under the couch. She didn’t question the handwriting, didn’t question why the Tooth Fairy wrote on notebook paper instead of fancy parchment. She just immediately started asking when we could sign up for art class. I rearranged my work meetings that day to get her registered.
A lot of parents ask me if this counts as lying, and I get the question, but it doesn’t feel like lying to me. It feels like meeting your kid where they are. If your kid writes a letter to the Tooth Fairy (or Santa, or the Easter Bunny) asking for something big that feels out of bounds, here’s what I’ve found actually works, instead of shutting them down or overcomplicating it. First, don’t immediately correct the myth to make your point. If your kid is asking a magical figure for something, they’re not asking for a factual answer—they’re asking for their need to be seen. Second, use the magic to lead to a real solution, don’t just make up a fake answer or say no. If they ask for a puppy, the Tooth Fairy can write that she’s checked your house and you’re ready to pick out a puppy next month once you build the fence, not just “sorry I can’t bring dogs.” Third, it doesn’t have to be perfect. I scribbled my note in 90 seconds while the kettle boiled for my tea. It didn’t need calligraphy or glitter. Kids care that their question got an answer, not that it’s Instagram-worthy.
We went to the first art class last Tuesday. There was a 7-year-old girl named Zoe wearing a purple unicorn shirt, sitting at the table next to Lila, who forgot her glue stick and shared hers immediately. After class, we found out she lives three blocks away. Their moms exchanged numbers, and they’re going to the playground this weekend.
Does Lila still believe the Tooth Fairy arranged the whole thing? Yeah, she does. I don’t have any plans to tell her otherwise right now. Some days I wonder if we’re doing this whole parenting thing wrong, keeping the magic going longer than we need to. But looking at the drawing she taped to the fridge last night—three figures, Lila, Zoe, and a sparkly Tooth Fairy, all with googly eyes—I don’t really mind. It’s not a perfect story. It’s just a kid who needed help asking for what she wanted, and a mom who used what was available to help her get it. That’s enough for now.
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