Last night, as I settled down beside my 6-year-old daughter, Lily, to read her a bedtime story, the calmness of the room was interrupted by a soft sniffle.
“Are you okay, Lily?”
“It’s about Mr. Fluffy,” she replied, holding up the worn-out stuffed bunny. “Look how old and dirty he is! He doesn’t look like he used to.”
“Mr. Fluffy is just fine, sweetie. It’s a sign of how much you care for him. Remember the tale of The Velveteen Rabbit? Your love is what makes him special.”
“I know that’s not real!” she protested, burying her face in Mr. Fluffy’s fur, her tears making it even more tattered.
Recently, we had a mini-crisis when Mr. Fluffy seemed to vanish. After a frantic search, we discovered him buried under a mountain of blankets in our playroom—an unfortunate casualty of our fort-building adventures. We had convinced ourselves he was lost forever, and it took us weeks to realize he was right where we left him. When we finally found him, Lily was ecstatic but cautious. She held Mr. Fluffy tightly, her brow furrowed with concern, reminiscent of a mother worried about a sick child.
Not long ago, I casually mentioned to the kids that they would soon need privacy during bath time and while dressing. Our home is unabashedly open, but with my son, Jake, nearing puberty, some boundaries are inevitable. Lily broke down at the thought. It wasn’t the privacy that upset her—it was the reality of her brother growing up.
“I don’t want him to grow up! I want him to always be here!”
“Jake will always be just four years older than you. He won’t outgrow you,” I reassured her.
“But he’ll have his own house one day!”
“Doesn’t he say you can live with him?”
“Yes, but we won’t be here, with you and Dad. Everything will change.”
“How about we build a tunnel between your house and his?” (I’m just making it up as I go along.)
Lily retorted that city regulations wouldn’t allow such silly tunnels—duh, Mom.
We’ve had similar conversations with Jake when he was Lily’s age, experiencing that profound realization of life’s fleeting nature. I can still recall my own childhood fears as I began to grasp the reality of impermanence and loss. It’s a heavy realization, one that weighs on you until it becomes hard to breathe.
Lily is beginning to understand just how fragile everything is. Remember when our babies first discovered object permanence? It was heartwarming to see our 5-month-old understand that we didn’t disappear when we hid behind a blanket. But the other side of that coin is painful—when they realize that departing through the front door means we might not return right away. This repetitive cycle of leaving and returning teaches them that loved ones and cherished objects are always there for them. For a few blissful years, this belief in permanence feels unshakeable.
Until that day arrives when it doesn’t anymore.
When Lily unearthed Mr. Fluffy from the blanket fort, she was understandably taken aback by his worn condition. Three weeks spent with newer, cleaner toys highlighted just how much he had aged. But it wasn’t until that moment, snuggled up with me as I read, that she comprehended a sobering truth: one day, Mr. Fluffy will wear out completely. He will disintegrate from the love he has received.
Jake will grow up, and their innocent sibling baths will become a memory. They will no longer share those cozy nights under the blanket fort, their little legs entwined. The idea of building tunnels to connect them will remain just that—an idea. Beautiful moments come to an end, and the concept of object permanence fades.
Lily cried, alternating between thrusting Mr. Fluffy at me for cleaning and clutching him to her chest. I encouraged her to cuddle with him a little longer while I researched methods to clean him without causing any more damage. Perhaps I could restore some of his former glory.
Tonight, we’ll all crawl under the blanket fort, some of us in our pajamas, blissfully unaware of the significance of modesty. We’ll weave tales of a family that lived together forever, starting in one house and expanding to others, all connected by a hidden, everlasting tunnel beneath the earth.
If you’re interested in learning more about parenting and the journey of love and loss, check out this enlightening post on intracervicalinsemination.org. For those considering home insemination, Make a Mom offers a reliable selection of at-home insemination syringe kits. Also, if you want a deeper dive into the IVF process, Parents provides an excellent resource.
In summary, as our children navigate the complexities of growing up, we must help them understand that while love and connection are enduring, change is an inevitable part of life. Through these conversations, we can guide them in facing the realities of object permanence and the beauty that exists in both love and loss.
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