“One more tug, Mama.”
I braced her in a headlock against my belly while reaching in between her jaws with enough trust to know I wouldn’t loose a finger. With a washcloth for friction, I yanked with all my might, attempting to persuade her top front tooth to release from the stubborn roots on the right side. I halted before distorting her face, the panic stricken look in her eyes paired with her stop signal hand were enough for me to get the message.
The next day and thousands of little wiggles later, our seven year old flashed her toothless grin.
So often, we get to the next phase through little wiggles rather than a big, passionate tug.