About 10 minutes in, Lauren came down stairs. "Mom, my tooth is too loose and it hurts. Will you take it out, please?"
My dad may remember that we had as many of these conversations as I had teeth. I absolutely HATED having wiggly teeth in my mouth. He often obliged - as I recall, he'd say something funny, and then pull the tooth, hard and quick. I've since mastered the technique myself.
I said, "Let me give it a little wiggle." I gave the tooth a hard push with my thumb, and out it came.
"Yay!" Lauren shouted, running over to Alec, her mouth full of blood, "I lost my tooth!"
I gave Lauren a glass of water for rinsing, and a damp paper towel for blotting. Tooth in hand, she headed upstairs.
About 20 minutes later, she came bounding down the stairs. At this point, I was reloading our dishwasher (dinner parties are fun, but they usually require at least 2 rounds from our slow machine). She came into the kitchen, her mouth full of blood, and announced, "I lost another tooth!"
"What? Open your mouth."
Sure enough, the tooth I'd pulled out had neatly clotted, and it was, in fact, the tooth above it that was now missing. I handed her another glass of water for rinsing, and a new damp paper towel for blotting.
"Um, are we done with the teeth tonight?" I asked nervously, mentally reviewing that there were only $7 in my wallet.
"Don't worry, Mom," Lauren said. "I don't have any more wiggly teeth."