Object Permanence

I once thought that Peek-a-Boo was an unnecessarily scary and annoying game that was surely invented by a random someone's great aunt. But when I had my own child, I was surprised at how many times I was questioned about object permanence and my child's ability to grasp it.

Apparently, her being able to know that the ball is under the cup is the biggest accomplishment she will make in her young life. Understanding that objects exist whether she can see, hear or feel them, speaks to her mental capacity and ability to develop into, I can only assume, a Harvard alumnae.

I find that most of my parenting at this phase is teaching Lowery numerous lessons that I will then have to unteach her, building up ideas and thoughts she will spend her life breaking down. At six months, through my encouragement, she learned to point. When I ask her where things are, she points at them and I clap. But at five years of age I will have to tell her to stop pointing, it isn't nice.  Eating finger foods, a lesson that took much of my patience to teach, will later be a lesson on not playing with her food. Learn to drink from a bottle so I can wean you from it in a few months.

Child development specialists wave their hands and say things like "socioemotional" and "sensorimotor" and I nod as I do when anyone uses big words. And while I understand the physiological babble surrounding the necessity of object permanence, and I appreciate how stern the pediatrician becomes when I question its importance, I can't help but think that teaching my daughter that the ball is always under the cup is counterproductive.

In the span of one week I had two good friends come to me with life altering news. The first friend confessed she was headed for divorce. This was a shock to anyone who knew the couple, but, more than that, it came as a complete surprise to her. They'd shared more than a decade together and she had no inkling he was gearing up to say goodbye. Her sadness in telling me the story affected me in a way that felt selfish and silly. As any married person does upon hearing of close friends divorcing, I suddenly looked at my own relationship with skepticism.

The second friend came to me a few days later with news of her engagement. She and her fiance sat down in our toy-littered living room giddy and touchy, laughing as they told the story of how he proposed. And while this friend is truly the most deserving friend I have, watching her giggle and smile with her fiance, while my husband and I (covered in Cheerio mush) wrangled our daughter who was trying to eat a magazine, made me feel a twinge of jealousy down deep.

I know that I'm very happy. Especially in my marriage. Jim and I don't fight all too often, and when we do it's efficient and productive. We communicate well, we share similar interests, we make each other laugh, and our biggest complaint is not enough time together. But the cliches of parenthood have settled on our marriage like a blanket. We are tired. Stressed. Constantly on the move. We talk endlessly about how much we love our daughter, what cute faces she does, what words she says, and our hopes for her life. And in those moments, I'm filled with pride and love to sit there, talking to my husband about the magnificent creature we created. But upon reflection, I wonder if we should have been talking about something, anything, else.


Nearing the end of my doctoral program, I can feel myself clinging harder to it. Slowing down, procrastinating. I've become accustomed to my life as a student. One in which people see I have potential to do something, but I don't actually have to do it just yet. I spend each semester ready for a break from the stress, and when I get that break, I am depressed because apparently I thrive in stress, which clearly means I'm batshit. If I finish the degree, what am I then? I'd be in yet another phase of life now that I'm finally adjusted to this one. I have to figure out who I am if I'm not a student. What I want out of life. Is accomplishing the degree and having some moderate success in my career enough? Probably not, as I'm already considering opening a bed and breakfast and have signed up for a wood shop class at the local VoTech.


I grew up around religion. Well, my family went to church and we prayed before dinner. Religion light. But religion wasn't a guiding principle in our upbringing. My parents never said things like, "Well, Jesus would want you to do this," or "The Bible tells us..." But I suppose I felt that I grew up with religion. And, rightly or wrongly, I believed in God.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I went with a friend to see another friend in a play at a church. The play was a series of skits in which a person sinned, the Devil ran through the audience scaring the children, and Jesus showed up to take them home. In one of the sketches, there was a gay man dying of AIDS, and the only way he could get to heaven was to turn away from the Devil and apologize to Jesus for his lifestyle. Clearly, religion was not for me.

But giving up on religion was harder than I thought. Apparently, when it comes to religion, you aren't allowed to make your own choice. It's a group decision. A guy I dated right out of college broke up with me after hearing I didn't "accept Christ as my personal savior." I've been told by strangers that I didn't have enough faith. I've been told by those closest to me that I'm not a good person. I've been told from a random mix of both that I'm going to hell. And I've been told that whether I can see him, hear him or feel him, God is there. Under the cup.

But the difference is, when I teach Lowery the ball and cup game, she gets to hold the ball first. See it. Explore it. Throw it across the room. And then I hide it. Take it from her. Force her to believe it's still there. There is too much suffering around the world for me to think that everyone's had the opportunity to see the ball go under the cup. I can believe in something I've seen. In something I've heard and felt and experienced with as much certainty as holding a plastic, red sphere. Which means I can believe in my child, my marriage and myself. But don't press me about God.

When my child was born I thought everything was permanent. Post partum depression seemed insurmountable. Teething seems endless. Diaper changing is constant. And when she cries, even just for a minute, it feels like eternity. But I'm coming to grips with the idea that nothing is permanent, not marriage, not beliefs, not professional fulfillment and certainly not infancy. The most beautiful things in my life have come from the realization that something else has ended. And my own greatest accomplishment is understanding that nothing is permanent, or guaranteed. Success is fleeting, failure is reversible, tattoos are removable. And lots of people have cheated death and committed tax evasion.

When I sit with my daughter on the floor and hide the ball under the cup, I'm teaching her that what is there will always be there. That the world has permanence. That the ball is even worth overturning the cup. And the ball being there is a good thing.

And it just might be the worst thing I'll ever teach my child.