A friend of mine joked to me that her “sweet spot” was in her thumb and would always keep her sweet. It got me thinking of my own right thumb. It’s a fairly ordinary one, the nail short from a long habit of nervous chewing. It moves where I want it, punching a keyboard key, texting a message to a friend, tucking a stray lock of hair behind the ear. Strange to remember how as a child, that dull digit was a continuous source of comfort and security. A constantly soggy, wrinkled, and much smaller version of the present pollux.
I’m a self admitted thumbsucker. Even now in my twenties I find myself on the rare relapse after a particularly awful day. The only witness is my tattered bear, who is occasionally drooled on as he abandons his usual perch atop the bookcase and is cuddled close. It’s been a long addiction. My mother often pulls out the grainy ultra sound photo that clearly depicts myself beginning the practice in the womb. Perhaps I was having a bad day, Mom did have cravings for spicy foods during her pregnancy.
Dad found the habit sweet and completely innocent. I have memories of his gray eyes sparkling as he asked “What flavor today princess?”. I would reply with giggles muffled by my half full mouth, “Strawberry!” or from time to time “Peanut butter!” if I desired a change. Mom with her career almost exclusively centering around the mouth and speech, lamented my obsession. I was nearly five when she decided that it must stop. Her first attempt was to pull it out when ever she caught me, or to give a low threatening “Carrieee!” whenever it unconsciously drifted toward my lips. Undeterred, I indulged in secret and hastily stopped whenever her eyes flicked my way.
Her next attempt was a small bottle of foul tasting liquid that our treacherous dentist prescribed. She would snatch up my small hand and paint my thumb thoroughly. After it dried and she was out of sight, I would give it a test lick. It only took an hour to discover that I could suck off the offending taste in a matter of minutes. Her hot sauce plan was similarly foiled. A mother of a friend of mine suggested a “spike” a foul metal contraption that could be fitted to the back of a child’s teeth to deliver a painful poke to an intruding thumb. Mortified by the thought, Mom gave up and settled on insisting to me that “big girls” didn’t suck their thumbs.
Kindergarden really made the difference. There was simply too much to do that required both hands: reading a book, playing in the sandbox, kickball, the engaging game of Red Rover. The habit was soon abandoned except when bored or at bedtime in the dim glow of my nightlight. That nighttime habit continued, unknown to both my parents. My mother thought her method had worked. In her mind my teeth were safe from damage, my soft palate untouched and my babyhood behind me. It wasn’t until the age of eleven that I stopped altogether. My thumb that had once fit so comfortably, now felt large and gawky. I was finally finished.
Now on the rare occasion I feel the need, perhaps only once a month, does my ill-fitting thumb slip back. Only at night, when I’m sad and wishing for childhood again and the ease of being small and innocent. A time when the scariest things in life were the monsters in your closet, kept at bay by an army of stuffed animals. My teddy watches me with faded eyes, free of judgement, and then I can sleep in peace.
