Last night, much like any other evening, I sat beside my 6-year-old daughter, Zoe, as she gradually fell asleep. The room was filled with the gentle hum of her white noise machine, and I thought she was on the verge of slumber—until a soft sniffle broke the silence.
“What’s the matter, Zoe?” I asked.
“It’s Sparkle the Unicorn.” She reached out from under the covers, her beloved but worn stuffed animal dangling from her fingers. “Look at her! She’s so old and dirty now. She doesn’t look how she used to.”
“Sweetheart, that’s just a sign of how loved she is. Remember the story of The Velveteen Rabbit? Sparkle is becoming real because you’ve cherished her for so long.”
“I know that story isn’t real!” Zoe tucked Sparkle back against her chest, sobbing into the unicorn’s worn horn, contributing to its shabby appearance.
Not long ago, we went through a panic when we thought we had lost Sparkle forever. She was simply hiding beneath a mountain of blankets (we’re fort enthusiasts), and it took us three weeks to discover her absence (we’re not exactly organized). During that time, we convinced ourselves Sparkle had vanished to a place from which she could never return—perhaps a rest stop on the highway. Gradually, we began to accept the idea of her loss.
But when we finally cleaned up the blanket mess, there was Sparkle, squished among the chaos. Zoe was overjoyed to find her cherished companion, yet her happiness was mixed with concern. She held Sparkle tightly, her forehead creased as if she were a mother worried for a sick child.
Just weeks earlier, I had mentioned that the kids would soon require privacy for bathing and dressing. We’ve always embraced a free-spirited, unclothed household, but as my older son, Max, nears puberty, some separation will be necessary. Zoe couldn’t contain her tears over my announcement. It wasn’t the privacy itself that upset her; it was the thought of Max growing up.
“I don’t want my brother to grow up! I want him always to be here with me!” she exclaimed.
“Max will always be just four years older than you. He can’t outgrow you,” I reassured her.
“But he’ll have his own house one day!” she protested.
“Doesn’t he say you can live with him?” I replied.
“Yes, but we won’t be here, in this house, with you and Dad. Everything will change.”
“You could live next door, and we could build a tunnel between our houses. How does that sound?” (I was improvising, okay?)
Zoe pointed out that you can’t just build random tunnels according to city codes—thanks for the reality check, kid.
We had similar discussions with Max when he was Zoe’s age, both of them grappling with the realization of life’s impermanence. I still recall my own childhood struggles with the concepts of loss and mortality, how those thoughts weighed heavily on me until I felt suffocated.
Zoe is starting to grasp how fragile everything is, how transient. Remember when our babies first learned about object permanence? It was adorable when our little ones realized that just because we disappeared behind a blanket, we weren’t truly gone. But the heartbreak came when they understood that walking out the door meant we were really leaving. For them, it’s a daily emotional rollercoaster, watching us vanish and reappear, never knowing when or if we’ll return. Through this cycle, we teach them that loved ones and cherished objects are permanent. For a few idyllic years, object permanence feels like an unchanging reality.
Until it doesn’t.
When Zoe pulled Sparkle from the blanket pile, she was understandably startled by the stuffed animal’s worn state, unsure what to make of it. Three weeks of playing with newer toys had highlighted just how tattered her beloved unicorn had become. But it wasn’t until that night, as she lay beside me, that the reality struck her: One day, Sparkle might fall apart completely. Her love could wear her down until she disintegrates.
Max will grow up and drift away. The innocent days of brother and sister bathing together, or snuggling under a blanket fort, will fade. We can’t truly create tunnels to stay connected. Beautiful moments have an end. There’s no such thing as true object permanence.
Zoe wept, alternating between handing Sparkle to me for some futile cleaning attempt and pulling the unicorn back to her chest. I encouraged her to sleep with Sparkle for a few more nights while I researched ways to clean her without causing more damage. Maybe I could even reverse some of her wear.
For tonight, we will all climb into the blanket fort, some of us clad only in our underwear, blissfully unaware of any notions of impropriety. We’ll weave tales of a lovely family that remained together forever in the same place, adding one building after another. Although these structures may appear separate, what the family knew was that, hidden deep beneath the earth, there existed an everlasting, unbreakable tunnel connecting them all.