The night before a summer tennis camp I pulled out my four remaining milk teeth. All molars. I sat on the dark navy, flower patterned futon upstairs in the end room where we kept our old TVs. I thought of it as in home recycling as the former living room tv would retire upstairs.

It was a stale air, muggy kind of night. The one where sweat stuck to your soul. After pulling the first loose tooth, I pushed at another one. I kept wiggling it back and forth until it gave. My hand covered in small droplets of blood and my shirt slick with the relentless heat. Next I moved to the more stubborn molars that barely budged. I pushed like I’d stem back the tide of demons if I could knock that tooth over. I did. Although I don’t know about the demons.

The fourth and final tooth sat next to new bloody craters— it must have looked like the rock of Gibraltar. Defiant in its existence as I tried to willfully pass from child to adolescent. I’d alternate sitting and standing as I worked at the last piece in a tooth fairy offering the likes of which isn’t seen outside of bicycle accidents or bar brawls.

Eventually it pulled free— and with it the nauseous of too much swallowed blood and an irresistible urge to prod each empty spot with my tongue in some sort of macabre dental musical chairs.

Eventually I went downstairs to show my parents my unauthorized archaeological findings— they were taken aback, but accepted this wackadoodle behavior in stride. Hard to get too upset when it isn’t something permanent.

That summer you could catch glimpses of an extra toothy side smile—

For others it could serve as a reminder to just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

For myself, I’m reminded that when I’m caught by an idea— when it digs its pernicious claws in— I don’t let go. Thankfully you only lose your baby teeth once.