My 6-year-old daughter doesn’t believe in Santa Claus or the weatherman. But she believes in the toothfairy.

Last July, the dentist told her that her bottom front teeth were loose. That news thrilled her because her big sister already has an impressive pen pal relationship with “TF.”

Weeks turned into months, and my secondborn’s stubborn bottom teeth would not get lost. Last month she went back to the dentist with all her baby teeth. The dentist again said those bottom teeth would come out soon, but she was really starting to think he sounded like the weatherman.

Last week, fortunately, one of those bottom front teeth got pretty wiggly. She showed off the wiggliness at church yesterday to many friends and at least two dental professionals in the congregation. Everyone’s advice was to eat an apple. She ate one last night. And tonight, lo and behold, that tooth finally came out. With just a wee bit of help from her daddy.

She very nearly exploded with delight afterward. Clenching her fists and jumping up and down, she squealed, “I losth my thooth! I losth my thooth!” more than a dozen times.

Big sister flew from the piano bench to fetch a much-needed box of tissues, my husband quickly snatched the digital video recorder, and I dashed to the next room to fetch my camera.

“It’s the toothfairy’s lucky day!” she exclaimed proudly, and then she headed to the bathroom mirror to catch a glimpse of her new toothless grin.

She made several calls to the grandparents to share the news. Then big sister helped little sister stash the tooth in the pocket of a special tiny pillow, which they carefully placed at the head of the bed and covered with a pink pillow.

Now she’s tucked snug in bed, awaiting the toothfairy.

Indeed it is the toothfairy’s lucky day.