Last night, as I sat beside my 6-year-old daughter, Lila, reading her favorite bedtime story, the room was tranquil, save for the soft hum of her white noise machine. I thought she was drifting into slumber, but then I heard a soft sniffle.
“What’s the matter, Lila?”
“It’s Mr. Snuggles,” she replied, her hand emerging from the covers, clutching the worn-out stuffed bunny. “Look at him! He’s so old and dirty now. He doesn’t look like he used to.”
“He’s just fine, sweetheart. That’s what happens to toys that are loved. Remember the story of The Velveteen Rabbit? Mr. Snuggles is becoming real because of how much you care for him.”
“I know it’s just a story!” Lila protested, pulling Mr. Snuggles close and burying her face into his tattered fur.
We had recently experienced a fright when we thought we’d lost Mr. Snuggles altogether. He had merely been hiding beneath a mountain of blankets, remnants of our fort-building adventures. It took us three weeks to uncover him (cleaning is not our strong suit). During that time, we convinced ourselves he had vanished forever, potentially stranded at some roadside rest area, and we began to reconcile with the loss.
When we finally unearthed him, Lila was ecstatic, but her joy was tinged with concern. She held her beloved bunny tightly, staring at its faded eyes, her tiny brow furrowed with worry. It reminded me of a parent comforting a sick child.
A few weeks earlier, I had casually mentioned to my children that they would need more privacy soon, especially as my son, Ethan, neared puberty. We’ve always embraced a carefree, naked household, but Lila was distressed, not about privacy—rather, the thought of her brother growing up.
“I don’t want Ethan to grow up! I want him to always be here with me!”
“Remember, he’ll always be just four years older than you. He’ll never truly outgrow you,” I reassured her.
“But he’ll have his own house someday!”
“Doesn’t he say you can visit him?”
“Yes, but we won’t all be together like now, with you and Dad. Everything will change.”
“Maybe you’ll live next door, and we can dig a tunnel to connect the houses. How does that sound?” (I admit, I was improvising.)
Lila rolled her eyes, pointing out that city regulations don’t allow random tunnels between homes—obviously, Mom.
We have had similar discussions with Ethan when he was Lila’s age, and I remember grappling with the same realization of life’s transient nature, the weight of impermanence pressing down until it felt suffocating.
Lila is just beginning to grasp this concept: how fleeting life can be, how delicate our attachments are. It reminds me of when our babies first learn about object permanence—how sweet it is when a five-month-old realizes that even when we disappear behind a blanket, we still exist. Conversely, the heartbreak when they understand that when we step outside, we’re truly gone. This cycle of disappearing and reappearing conditions our little ones to trust that we will return, teaching them that love, like the objects they cherish, is a constant presence.
But one day, that certainty shifts.
When Lila pulled Mr. Snuggles from the blanket pile, she was understandably taken aback by his worn state. Three weeks of playing with cleaner toys had highlighted just how dingy her cherished companion had become. It was during our bedtime routine that the reality hit her: One day, Mr. Snuggles would no longer hold together; he would wear out from their love and ultimately disintegrate.
Ethan will grow up and lead a life separate from Lila; their shared moments of innocence will fade away, and we won’t be able to create tunnels to connect our lives in quite the same way. All beautiful things must come to an end, and the concept of object permanence will eventually fade.
Lila wept, alternating between thrusting Mr. Snuggles at me for cleaning attempts and holding him close. I encouraged her to cuddle with him for a few more nights while I researched ways to clean him without causing further damage—maybe even restoring him a little.
Tonight, we’ll all gather under a blanket fort—some in pajamas, others in just their underwear, blissfully unaware of any implications. We’ll share tales of a beautiful family that lived together happily on the same land, adding on houses as they grew, with an everlasting tunnel connecting them beneath the earth.
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In summary, the journey of understanding object permanence reflects the deeper truths of love, loss, and the inevitable changes that come with growing up. As children grapple with these concepts, they learn to navigate the complexities of relationships and the world around them.