The Persistence of Bananas

One of the things that I was really looking forward to with having my own children was the chance to see a mind be created. To me this has to be the ultimate miracle of nature, that something so intricate and complex (the most complex thing in the universe, as far as we know) can be made, effectively, from nothing.

The trouble is, once you actually have a child, you realise that you don’t have much of a chance to sit back in rapt wonder as your progeny’s intelligence unfurls before your eyes. You’re too busy at the coal face, helping, teaching (or at least trying to) and cleaning up the mess afterwards. Great leaps in understanding either pass too quickly to catch, or too slowly to notice.

The only real way you notice how things have changed is when you take your child’s current intelligence and abilities for granted, and then they suddenly and effortlessly exceed them.

Take the other day, when Tom learned about the Persistence of Bananas.

Little babies live in the naked now. As far as they’re concerned, things that happened then have nothing to do with what’s happening now, or what’s going to happen. Objects only exist only while they’re within their field of vision, and after they’ve gone they might as well never have existed.

Until they develop the concept of persistence. The idea that things like mummies and daddies and balls and teddies can go away but still exist to return at a later time.

It’s hard to know when Tom started to twig this, but he has. Especially with bananas.

The other day I was feeding Tom a banana, taking small lumps off with my fingers for him to delicately take between thumb and forefinger and then indelicately shovel into his cake-hole. About half way through he lost interest and merrily crawled off to find something to creatively destroy (as is his wont). I assumed that he’d had his fill of bananery goodness for that day and, without much thought, polished the rest of it off.

A few minutes later he crawled back again, and clambered up my knees, grinning. I grinned back, and as I still had it in my hand, showed him the empty banana peel.

I’ve never seen anyone’s face sink so fast or so far. He immediately burst into tears. Even a fresh banana couldn’t console him.

My little boy had developed a Theory Regarding the Persistence of Bananas, and had confidently wandered off, safe in the knowledge that the banana would still exist. Only to return and cruelly be proved wrong. I felt really awful.

But, at the same time, amazed and proud. It was a tiny insight into a brand new mind forming. The most complex thing in the universe, tenaciously wishing itself into existence.

And there’ll always be more bananas.