This was me when I was a kid:
I sucked my thumb and carried a blankey everywhere. But unlike Linus, I kept losing my blanket. I would scream and cry until I made my mother drive back to my friend’s house to get it. So my mother in her wisdom cut my blanket into small pieces. Not to be cruel, but this way if I lost one, she would always have another ready. Or if one piece got disgusting, she could wash it without me freaking out. And if I went somewhere, she’d safety pin a piece of blankey to my clothes. It all happened so long ago that I don’t even remember the blanket as a whole. I’m sure it started white, but by the time I could form memories, it was gray.
I remember when I was about 4, my aunt decided that I was too old to have a blankey (or a piece of a blankey) and she took it away from me when I was baby sitting. Her cruelty was ineffective. I think it even had the opposite effect, making me attached to the blankey for longer than I would have been ordinarily.
At some point in elementary school, I stopped needing my shred of a blanket. Sometimes when I’m at my parents’ house cleaning out a closet or a box of my junk, I’ll find a piece of dirty gray blanket. My mom was pretty smart to cut it up into so many pieces, but I wonder when I’ll finally be finished throwing them all away.