Updated: Dec. 17, 2020
Originally Published: Jan. 29, 2016
Last night, as I sat next to my 6-year-old daughter, Eva, while she drifted into slumber, the room was calm except for the soft hum of her white noise machine. I believed she was on the verge of sleep until I heard a sniffle.
“What’s the matter, Eva?” I inquired.
“It’s Mr. Snuggles,” she replied, extending her hand from beneath the covers to reveal her well-loved stuffed animal, whose fur was now tattered and worn. “Look at him. He doesn’t look like he used to.”
“He’s perfectly fine, darling. That’s just the way it goes with toys that are cherished. Remember the tale of The Velveteen Rabbit? Mr. Snuggles is becoming real because of all the love you’ve given him.”
“I know that’s not a true story!” Eva protested, pulling Mr. Snuggles closer and burying her face in his frayed ear, tears streaming down her cheeks.
We had recently experienced a minor scare involving Mr. Snuggles—he had been missing for what felt like an eternity, only to be discovered three weeks later beneath a mountain of blankets from our fort-building adventures. In those weeks, we convinced ourselves he might be lost forever, and though we moved on, the moment we found him was bittersweet. Eva’s joy at rediscovering her beloved toy was overshadowed by a shadow of uncertainty, as she examined his worn-out condition with a frown, reminiscent of a parent concerned for a sick child.
Not long ago, I had mentioned to my children that soon they would need privacy for bathing and dressing. Our household has always embraced nudity, but with my son, Jake, nearing puberty, it was time for some changes. Eva burst into tears—not about the privacy itself, but the realization that her brother was growing up.
“I don’t want Jake to grow up! I want him to always be here with me!” she cried.
“Jake will always be just four years older than you. He’ll never truly outgrow you,” I reassured her.
“But he’ll have his own house one day!” she lamented.
“Doesn’t he say you can live with him?” I asked.
“Yes, but we won’t be here, in this house, with you and Dad. Everything will be different.”
“What if you lived next door and we built a tunnel between our houses?” I suggested, trying to make light of the situation. Eva shot back that city regulations wouldn’t allow such whims—classic kid logic.
We had similar discussions with Jake when he faced this cognitive realization of life’s transience. I recall my childhood struggles with concepts of impermanence and loss, feelings that weighed heavily on me until they became almost unbearable.
This dawning awareness is what Eva is grappling with now. It’s the same realization that occurs when infants first grasp the concept of object permanence—the sweet moment when they learn that when we disappear behind a blanket, we’re not actually gone; and the heart-wrenching understanding when we leave through the front door that we might not return. The cycle of disappearing and reappearing teaches them that we will come back, fostering a belief in the permanence of their loved ones. For a brief period, the idea of object permanence becomes a comforting truth—until it no longer does.
When Eva uncovered Mr. Snuggles from the blanket rubble, she was understandably taken aback by the toy’s decline, especially after weeks of playing with cleaner, newer toys in his absence. But it was during our bedtime routine that the reality hit her: One day, Mr. Snuggles may fall apart completely, worn down by her affection until he is nothing but a memory.
Jake will eventually grow up, and their childhood innocence will fade as they no longer share baths or sleep under the same blanket fort. The dream of connecting tunnels between houses will remain just that—a dream. Beautiful moments come to an end, and the concept of object permanence shatters.
Eva sobbed as she alternated between presenting Mr. Snuggles to me for cleaning and clutching him tightly to her chest. I encouraged her to keep him close for a few more nights while I researched ways to clean him without causing further damage. Perhaps I could restore a bit of his former glory.
Tonight, we’ll all gather under the blanket fort, some of us in only our underwear, blissfully unaware of any impropriety. We’ll spin stories about a loving family that lived together forever on the same land, expanding their home with each passing year while knowing that beneath it all, an everlasting tunnel connected them all.
In exploring these themes of change and impermanence, we can also look to resources like Cleveland Clinic’s guide on intrauterine insemination for further understanding of family planning and the journey to parenthood. For those interested in alternative methods, this post on home insemination provides valuable insights, and Cryobaby’s kits are an excellent resource for home insemination options.
In summary, as we navigate the delicate balance between love and loss, we can embrace the impermanence of life and cherish the memories we create along the way.