By Drummond the Beaver

The economy is so strange right now that we’ve begun looking to pixies for fiscal guidance.

According to a poll from Delta Dental, the average payout for a tooth tucked beneath a child’s pillow this year is $5.84. That’s a 17% increase over 2025 and the first jump since 2023, when the Tooth Fairy apparently tightened her glittery belt and began shopping generic.

$5.84.

When I was a child, the Tooth Fairy left a quarter and a note that smelled faintly of mothballs and regret. Now she’s basically running a venture capital firm out of a molar.

Economists insist this is serious. The going rate for a child’s tooth, they say, functions as a kind of economic bellweather. When markets rise and parents feel flush, the Fairy sprinkles largesse like a Wall Street bonus with wings. When things get tight, she starts leaving IOUs written on floss.

Picture her now: seated at a tiny Lucite desk, wings askew, staring at a spreadsheet titled “Incisor Futures Q1.” A framed motivational poster reads: Hang in There, featuring a kitten clinging to a bicuspid.

The loss of a first tooth is now worth an average of $7.17—up 23% from last year. The first tooth! That’s the IPO of the mouth. The debutante ball of dentition. No wonder the payout is higher. That first tooth is ceremonial. It’s the child’s first interaction with a shadow economy that involves bodily detritus and nocturnal currency exchange.

All regions in the U.S. saw a spike in payouts, with the Northeast leading at $6.45 per tooth—a 41% increase. The Northeast. Of course. Those children are probably presenting their teeth with PowerPoint decks.

“Before you slide that under the pillow, Madison,” whispers a hedge fund father in Connecticut, “have you considered market timing? That lateral incisor shows strong enamel fundamentals.”

Meanwhile, somewhere in Ohio, a kid is shaking his own head like a malfunctioning Pez dispenser, trying to stimulate supply.

Let’s talk about Bitcoin.

While volatile digital assets have crushed other mythical entities (I’m told the Easter Bunny briefly accepted crypto and is now living in a time-share outside Tampa), the Tooth Fairy has apparently avoided being flattened by falling coin prices. She has remained remarkably liquid, operating on a strictly cash basis. No NFTs of molars. No blockchain-backed canines. Just cold, hard currency tucked beneath a pillow that smells faintly of drool and graham crackers.

But let’s not pretend this is all pixie dust and prosperity.

A $5.84 average suggests a Fairy under pressure. Seventeen percent year-over-year is not whimsy—that’s inflation with wings. Glitter isn’t cheap. Have you priced stardust lately? And do you know what dental scrap metal is going for on the open market? The Fairy is essentially running a micro-recycling operation with strict overnight delivery guarantees.

And think about the logistics. The moment children learn that the first tooth is worth $7.17, the temptation becomes unbearable.

Which brings us to the most important public service announcement of our time:

Kids, do not begin pulling your teeth out early to maximize profits.

This is not a startup.

You cannot accelerate the shedding schedule for better quarterly returns. You cannot diversify into “premium molar bundles.” You certainly cannot pitch Shark Tank with a velvet pouch full of incisors and say, “I’m seeking $50 for 10% of my mouth.”

The Tooth Fairy has auditors.

Somewhere, in a cubicle made of spun sugar, she’s watching. She’s got regional payout charts. She’s got Northeast metrics highlighted in aggressive pink. She’s got a tiny calculator and a migraine.

And tonight, when she slips under a pillow to exchange enamel for currency, she will pause for a moment, glance at the tooth in her hand, and mutter, “Seventeen percent. Again.”

Then she’ll leave $5.84, flap into the darkness, and pray the Federal Reserve doesn’t discover her.

Because once Jerome Powell figures out the true power behind childhood liquidity, we’re all going to be stuffing bicuspids under our mattresses.