Thumb Sucking

An infant knows nothing of war. Words like recession and retrovirus are nowhere in his vocabulary, which for the moment is limited to "words" of one syllable and no dictionary definition. The things he knows can be counted on one hand, as can his needs. Of the latter, some are simple: hunger, warmth, a soothing voice. Others are more elusive, less clearly understood and hence fulfilled. An instinct, tantalizingly vague: There is something to do with the hand and the face that will bring satisfaction.

But what is a hand, what is a face, how is either to be operated with no experience?

In the earliest days, movement of any kind presents difficulty. The arms are spastic, rigid, moving in reflexive jerks if at all and never by conscious intent. For now, a surrogate thumb will suffice: a parent's pinkie, sucked as if to pull the nail from its socket, then its twin, then the ring fingers in turn, rotated as they show wear. There is something to be said for the quality of being served, but the reliance on another carries an unwelcome provisional aspect, undermining the sense of security the act would seem designed to attain.

Painful weeks pass, false starts, setbacks, scars and scabs on the nose and cheeks from razor-sharp little fingernails. Sleepless nights tossing and turning in the crib, too alone even to cry out, no relief in sight for the preternatural craving centered in the lower face. But all the while, neural pathways emerge and reach out to each other like frost across a windowpane. The arms slowly come under the dominion of the mind. The hand finally reaches the mouth.

But now here, what to do? The singular form of the mouth is confounded by the multifarious fingers of the hand, four of a kind and a fifth oddly different, sometimes splayed, sometimes curved limply, sometimes balled up, thumb-in or thumb-out. Sucking on the back is obvious enough, and will serve for now, but it's just as obvious that there is more to be realized. The knuckle of the index finger — close, but no cigar. Again and again, the hand is brought up in a fist to the mouth as if to blow a horn, but the thumb is braced against the four fingertips, far from its goal. Even if it has come across to the right side of the hand, the thumb remains tight against the index finger, not to be pried open for love or money.

Then one day — hooray! Success. Self-sufficiency. Of course: The thumb goes in the mouth. The target has been struck, the first goal achieved, the first mastery attained. The form may be imperfect, the thumb extended perpendicular from the palm so that the open fingers lie across the cheek.

The index finger has yet to curl around the tip of the nose, bringing new resources to bear. All in good time. There is a world yet to conquer.

Some infants are born with the ability, some beginning even in the womb. Their lives are very different indeed.

— J. Daniel Janzen (dan at clownyard dot com)

— photography by J. Daniel Janzen (jdjanzen at panix dot com)