I was reminded again last night that, of all my magical incarnations — Santa, Easter Bunny, Fukko the Drunken Walrus — my least favorite is the Tooth Fairy. I hate being the stupid tooth fairy. Too much pressure.

The other ones you can prep for. You have warning. It’s marked on the calendar. But a gig as the Fairy can crop up at a moment’s notice. No small bills on hand? You fail. Clicky ankles that wake the kid in the middle of the night. You fail. Get sleepy and forget. You fail.

Being the Tooth fairy is a load of crap.

And how did I win this one?

So there I am again last night, fishing around under Ri-ri’s pillow. I can’t find the note she wrote (cleaning people tossed the baggie containing tiny tooth, argh), and she’s waking up. I panic, shove a couple of ones under the pillow and bolt.

Of course, she wakes up, the note is still under the pillow, but the ones have fallen under the bed. Total meltdown.

Whose idea was it to pay kids or shedding teeth? I’d really like five minutes with that guy.

Could we not all get together and rise up against the tooth fairy? I promise that I will stop if all of you will. If we act in concert, we can free ourselves of this scourge.

I love it when we act in concert.

Hell with the Beijing Olympics, boycott the Tooth Fairy!