So, Thea wrote this post here, and I left a comment, and she suggested that I just copy and paste my comment here on my blog.

My comment was: When I was three, I knocked my front tooth out. It hurt. The End.

But knowing you folks the way I do, I know that wouldn't be enough for you, so, here's the story of how I knocked out my front tooth.

When I was three, my parents had the living room furniture arranged so that I could put my left hand on the arm of the couch, my right hand on the arm of the chair, lift my feet up and swing myself back and forth.

I remember I did this a lot.

One evening, I was swinging myself on the arms of the couch and the chair, and I'll give you one guess as to what happened next.

Yep. My hand slipped, I fell forward, and landed face first. It hurt. I wailed. I'm not sure which parent got to me first, but the next then I remember, my mom is putting a wet cloth in my mouth and calling the dentist's emergency line. My dad is on his hands and knees looking for my tooth.

Per the dentist's orders, we put my tooth in milk, and headed to his office at 8 p.m.

The dentist decided that since it was a baby tooth, and I would be getting a permanent tooth in a few years, there was no need to put the tooth back. So, we drove home, with my mouth packed full of gauze.

It's funny how even at that age, a child can be self conscious because the first picture my mom had taken of me after that, I refused to smile.

I was six before I had two front teeth again. By the time it came in, I was so used to only having one front tooth that two felt weird.

And really, that is The End.