My kids are forever bracing against the inevitability that I will embarrass them publicly. Hockey dinners, a new boyfriend or girlfriend, giving a friend a lift home from the mall---these are all occasions that beg me to recall the most mortifying moments of my children’s youths. I keep a famous “tush” photo on my dressing table—an explicit nude snapshot of my kids at a very young age lying face down in their Grandma’s bathtub—that serves as an enforcer. The credible threat that I will produce this “full moon” photo in mixed company will normally motivate the most excellent of behaviors.
When I announced my intention to write a daily blog, my kids’ excitement quickly turned to panic when they realized that they were likely to provide the fodder for many of my stories. I started receiving text messages suggesting that certain subjects are taboo. While I have deep respect for my children and their privacy, I just cannot help it that they are a constant source of both inspiration and amusement. It is with the utmost dignity and respect, therefore, that I tell the tale of my twenty-two year old son’s deepest love and soul mate: his stuffed gorilla.
My beloved first-born was very large and active in the womb. His presence in our pre-partum life took on the qualities of an animated cartoon creature, known affectionately as ‘Orca’. Orca became the scapegoat for all of my nesting excesses. Every indulgence that followed me from store to car to home was explained by “Orca begged for it.” The fact that I could never refuse him did not end with birth, or high school graduation, or coming of age. I am putty in his hands—and he knows it.
During the eighth month of pregnancy, my husband was invited to give a lecture at a meeting in Honolulu. Having never been to Hawaii I could not refuse the opportunity to accompany him, although by that time the nickname ‘Orca’ could have applied to me. I do not recommend visiting an island paradise during the third trimester; it is not good for one’s self-esteem! As beach bathing was not in the cards, we occupied our time sightseeing every inch of the island and, of course, shopping.
At the Dole Cannery—Honolulu’s answer to Faneuil Hall Marketplace—I was drawn as if by magnetic pull to a certain display of stuff animals. There, ‘Orca’ called out for a snow white plush gorilla holding a Dole-embossed Musa acuminata in his yellow-gloved hand. The tag revealed his name to be, aptly, “Bananarilla”. As I examined this toy with the scrutiny only a new parent understands, his outstretched gorilla pose appeared to hug little Orca. I would swear under oath that there was an electrical connection between this toy and my unborn child. I went straight to the cash register with credit card blazing.
On the endless plane ride home, Bananarilla rested on my baby bump, his tiny hand stroking the baby beneath. A few weeks later, when we set up the baby’s crib, I placed Bananarilla in the crib to await the new addition. On the day that we brought our little son home, his name replaced by a suitable tribute to my husband's late father, we placed him aside his anxiously expectant companion. This was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Bananarilla was the blanket to his Linus. When my son formed his first words, his trusty companion became ‘Nana. As he got older we would leave books in the crib while he slept. When he awoke, he would sit in his crib with 'Nana on his lap "reading" the books to him.
‘Nana and my son spent every day of their lives together. If my son went to a sleepover, the toy went too. When my son reached his teens, ‘Nana still went along but would remain hidden among his belongings. At times when my son was sick, I would take ‘Nana’s temperature and even give ‘Nana medicine. ‘Nana gave my son the courage to get shots or have blood tests by offering himself up as the first patient. Once, when we vacationed at Niagara Falls, ‘Nana became obscured by the sheets in the hotel bed and was left behind accidently. The hotel had to FedEx him back to us.
Over the years, ‘Nana saw many washings, his painted eyes fading to a white plastic blindness. The Dole banana, once stitched proudly to the animal’s right hand, is long gone. The snow-white fur became grey, knotty, and pilled; the stuffing matted and limp. Nonetheless, my son remained devoted to his plush brother, even if he occasionally obscured the toy between the wall and the mattress when the hockey team came over.
Inevitably, the time came when my son would leave for college. My husband and I wondered whether ‘Nana would make the three-thousand-mile trip as well. As our son packed for college I quietly put "‘Nana" on his packing list. My son gave me a sheepish look, claiming it was ridiculous, although his look seemed to ask the unspoken question: “Do you think I can bring him?” In the end, ‘Nana stayed home, tucked comfortably into a pocketed pillow atop the bed they both shared. For finals week, I snapped a photo of ‘Nana and sent it to my son for encouragement. It was the best substitute for a mother’s hug. Over the years, I continue to send him random shots of ‘Nana—sometimes wearing a hat from a favorite team during playoffs, sometimes holding a 'Happy Birthday' sign.
Twice a year my son comes home from college. Now twenty-two years old, he would have you believe that he is an adult in every sense of the word. ‘Nana remains displayed in his room among the other artifacts of his youth: hockey and baseball trophies, an endless collection of baseball hats, more shoes than Imelda Marcos. It is a joy to have him home. There is nothing like the warm hugs he gives generously to his mother, holding on a little longer than I should notice. The vacations pass all too quickly and then he is gone again.
In the aftermath of his last vacation, I picked through his room, finding the things he has left behind that must be shipped to him cross-country, realigning the sport shoes on the floor of the closet, and removing empty Gatorade bottles and the dirty dishes of late night snacks. When I strip his bed to clean the sheets, I am choked up to find ‘Nana back where he belongs: deep in the twisted covers masked in the sweet smell of my sweet son. That’s when I know he is still my baby.
Love you ma!
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