Object Permanence

The term “object permanence” has, as far as I can tell, completed its transition from academic literature to lay usage.  Maybe that’s just because I live in Brooklyn, a stone’s throw from Park Slope, where minoring in developmental psychology is considered a parenthood prerequisite.

Regardless, I’ve discovered that I can hang out with other parents and crack jokes like “I can steal things from Elliot because he doesn’t have object permanence,” and they seem to get it.  Are they just faking?  Again, I live in Brooklyn, so it’s hard to say.  But at least as many Brooklynites would tell me where to shove it as would fake laugh.

Elliot has had basic object permanence for a while.  Since about 9 months we started playing peek-a-boo, and this has evolved into his favorite game.  It gets old (for him) after about 20 peek-a-boos, but with a five-minute break he’s ready to go again.  

(Don’t ask how quickly it gets boring for me. Hannah and I just watched the latest special from the comedian Louis CK.  At one point he talks about how he explained to his daughter that he had to end a board game halfway through: “I’m sorry honey, I love you, but I love you less than I am bored.”)

But in the past few weeks Elliot seems to have developed what I have decided to call advanced object permanence.

Here’s what happened when Elliot played with toys:  at age three months, you could take it away and he thought it ceased to exist.  At 9 months, you could take it away and he knew it still existed but he didn’t care.  He just started hunting around for another toy to play with.  Now, at 15 months, he knows the toy exists, he knows it’s in your hand, and he will throw a temper tantrum for 2-5 seconds to try to get it back.  This morning he clenched every muscle in his body at the same time and nearly flipped himself out of my arms.  He screamed for a second, and then a second he was completely fine.

We’re on a trajectory here, and I can see where it leads: the terrible twos.  I can see the nascent temper tantrums starting to burble up beneath his generally perfect personality.  It’s like being in a car crash: there’s a moment when you can see exactly what’s about to happen but you can do nothing to stop it.  

Is there anything I can do to stop it?  Please advise.