I drink coffee with a paleontologist who studies mammal teeth. I tell him that lately, at parties, I’ve been showing people photos of x-rays of children’s heads; nobody can believe that children’s heads are filled with row upon row of teeth, children’s heads are half-teeth. They just walk around like that, with all those teeth in their heads. He says the fossil record is rich with teeth, since mammals lose teeth all the time, and suddenly I am panicked to think of how many teeth must be on the ground at this exact moment. Lost teeth, decaying in the earth or plucked up by scavengers. I remember that there are creatures in this world who eat the bones and teeth of others.
The next day, my daughter loses two teeth and my son loses one and there are plastic baggies scattered around the house, each containing a single tiny ricey tooth. That night the tooth fairy forgets to come into their rooms because she is lost in sleep herself, dreaming that her teeth are rocking on their hinges, they are falling out, she can’t bring herself to smile.
In the morning I ask my daughter if she’s ever thought about other mammals losing their teeth and she gasps, why isn’t the earth covered with teeth all the time? I say, that’s what I said, and we wonder about it together.