Dad is a Fairy

“You are the tooth fairy! I have proof.”

Collie stood in the kitchen, arms folded, very satisfied with himself. Lillie stood behind, arms folded, grinning like a cat with a canary in its mouth.

Uh oh, busted.

I was making dinner. I resorted to the first response on being accused of a crime one has committed: deny it and ascertain the prosecution’s evidence.

“Me, the tooth fairy? Ha!” I laughed. “Why would you say that?”

Collie produced a piece of paper. It was a note I had helped him write last year:

To the Tooth Faire,

My first tooth lost.

Love, Collie.

He had written the words and drawn the hearts. I had drawn a tooth that he outlined in colored pencil.

“How nice,” I vamped. “The tooth fairy left this note for us as a souvenier.”

“Nice try, Dad,” Collie gloated.

“Yeah, nice try!” Lillie echoed.

They went back to their game of “spy.” I returned the note to its hiding place in my closet, but on a higher shelf.

I looked down at my secret stash of porn videos and DVDs. Time for a better hiding place, I thought.

A nightmare scenario: Collie presenting me with a plain black video tape of “Cunt Hunt Nine,” and asking “Nine sequels? It’s that good?