Pulling A Thread

Pulling a thread. What could go wrong? More than I ever imagined.

The scene is in the early 1960s. Here's a picture of me on the playground to help you get a mental image of who's talking.

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I am about 2 years old. I am dressed in my crinoline petticoat and fancy church dress. I am wearing my frilly, lacey, white ankle socks with my black patent leather shoes. I am sitting on the church pew beside my mom. My sister has been separated from me, sitting on the other side of my mom. I am squirmy. I am wiggly. I am bored. I let out more than one huff as I hear my dad drone on and on as he stands in front of the congregation. I don’t hear any of the words that I recognize as “wrapping it up” words. These are "I'm gonna be talking for a while" words. It’s all grownup words uttered from behind a pulpit. My dad uses a formal voice, not the voice I hear every day at home. I notice that he rolls his RRRRR’s as he speaks.  I try to use my tongue to roll RRRRR’s, but it only produces spit. I fidget. I swing my legs. I look around at all the other people who watch my dad.

I look at my mom. She has an expression that shows that she is happy to listen to my dad. She nods her head and smiles. I can tell that she is focusing very hard on his words. I pull my feet up onto the church pew. She doesn’t react at all. She isn’t paying attention to me. As I watch her, I kick my feet around a little. She doesn't notice.

Still watching her, I reach down to grasp the tiny buckle strap that holds my shoe securely on my foot. Ever so slowly I try to loosen the buckle, but I quickly realize that it requires more concentration.  I turn all of my attention to the clasp that holds tight. With sustained effort my pudgy fingers manage to undo the clasp and release the strap. A quick glance at my mom tells me that she is none the wiser. Like a hostage secretly unhooking handcuffs, I relax and pretend like nothing is happening. After several seconds tick by, I slide my other foot into position so that I can repeat the Houdini escape act. When both shoes are completely unhooked, I dangle my feet from the pew, swinging the shoes looser and looser, until each one slides off and plops down noiselessly onto the floor. I wiggle my toes gleefully inside my socks.

By now my confidence has grown. I feel that I am free to do anything. I steal another look at my mom. Still no reaction in my direction. As I try to decide what to do next, I pull my comfy feet back up onto the church pew. That’s when I see it. A loose thread on my sock. Right up near my toes, a very white, very pointy, very noticeable thread. I decide that it looks very interesting, so I reach out and tug it. Nothing happens. So, I tug it again.  That’s when I feel some give. The sock seems to relax and doesn’t tug back. So, I tug harder. Then something unexpected happens. Right there beside the thread I see a tiny dark hole. As I inspect the hole, I start to think that what I’m seeing on the other side of the hole might be my foot. I wonder what my foot would be doing down in that hole. I tug some more. Now I see a bigger hole, and poking my finger into the hole I verify that it IS my foot down inside the hole. I continue to pull on the thread, and to my astonishment rows and rows of cotton sock begin to unravel. Once the process starts, it barrels forward like a freight train. I pull and pull. I can’t stop.

A soft mound of thread piles up beside my foot as I concentrate intently on pulling the thread. Somehow I work quietly, instinctively knowing the guidelines for kids who sit in churches, libraries, and other formal places. Shhhhhhh. I do my work silently but efficiently.

Next thing I know, the ball of my foot to the tip of my toes is completely naked. I watch my toes wiggle in their freedom. I am beyond thrilled at my accomplishment. Then I begin to examine the remaining portion of the sock, the part that covers the rest of my foot, my heel, and my ankle. By picking at the area where the original hole began, I am able to loosen another thread. I pause and consider what might happen next. I pull this new thread, and my thread-baring theory is confirmed as the second part of the sock starts to unravel. Deciding this is incredibly fun, I tug with abandon. Nothing can stop me from completing this task. Pull, unravel. Pull, unravel. Pull, unravel. Pull, unravel.

My frenzy winds down as I look at my jiggling unclothed foot. Not a stitch of thread on it. There on the church pew is a mountainous bundle of soft loose silky cotton thread. It’s amazing that all that thread had been sewn into my lacey cotton sock. Now, my foot has been released from its prison, thanks to my diligent concentration on the task at hand.  My victory is sweet, but short-lived.

My mom shifts in her seat, and a sudden attack of conscience hits me. I think, “Uh oh, this can’t be good.” I hear the “wrapping it up” words that my dad is saying from the pulpit. The organ music starts. Incredibly, my mom has not looked in my direction. I hang my head and stare at my lap. I know that, somehow, looking at my mom will trigger a scene that I do not want to experience.  I don’t want to call attention to myself.  I sit as still as humanly possible, at least as still as 2-year-oldly possible.

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That’s where my memory ends. I can’t remember what happened next.  I have no idea why my mom didn’t stop me during the misdeed. Or, at least, notice the madness. She was completely oblivious. I do know that I was eventually caught red-handed. I know that my parents were not pleased with my actions. I know that in the aftermath, I was watched closely to make sure that I didn’t get up to something else. The sock story became part of our family history.

When cleaning out my parents’ house recently, I found an old dusty filing cabinet that had been pushed aside for decades. In one of the drawers, I found an old, faded file folder labeled “GWEN.” The ONLY thing in the folder was this:

A magazine article by John Rosemond titled “Domesticating your WILD one.” An article about trying to get your toddler under control. That was filed away under the title "GWEN." Guilty as charged.

I work with preschoolers every day, so it’s easy for me to follow their train of thought, to think like them. I’ve seen many a youngster, in their zest for exploration, take something too far. I’ve seen them fail to self-regulate. I’ve seen them ignore looming consequences with their impulsive behavior. I’ve seen them forget the rules and follow their desires. I’ve seen them unravel things without any consideration of the problems that they cause.

But, I contend that preschoolers are not the only ones. I’ve seen many an adult do likewise. I myself have done likewise, I’m sorry to say. Sometimes we get carried away and end up with negative consequences. Sometimes we follow our urges. Sometimes we get so focused on what we want to do that we ignore everything else around us.

I’ll just leave you with some food for thought. How do we recognize when we are going too far? How can we control impulses that are damaging to us or to others? How can we stay alert to others who might need guidance; notice when they have gotten out of control? And, now I'll use my “wrapping it up” words-- In Conclusion, how do we domesticate the WILD ones? Or…..better yet.....do we really want to?