It's Hot In Here

With my coffee colored, hairy body pressed tight against the side of my father’s small house, I looked down at my dark gorilla feet, then to my left at the two nine year old girls beside me; hunkered low to the ground, beaming with excitement. Standing under the bright summer sun, the sweat dripped from inside my gorilla costume, and I regretted having outfitted myself so early. Turning my head quickly back toward my targeted destination – everything went black. Giving the clumsy, rubber gorilla mask a slight twist, I once again was able to see through the nickel sized openings that allowed only a limited view of my surroundings.

Thrusting myself low to the ground (done more for effect than anything else), the girls and I scampered across my father’s lawn until safely positioned in front of his house. Looking once again at my two accomplices I had to wonder what their young minds were thinking. After all, never once when I visited my friend’s houses, did their mothers throw on a full body gorilla costume and take them for a ride. Never once did we scuttle across anyone’s lawn about to scare the living daylights out of someone. But that’s the kind of mom I am, and when I try to act like anything else, I fail miserably. So there we sat, curled beneath the front window, preparing ourselves for the unrehearsed show I was about to perform.

Lacking the benefits of darkness, our only element of surprise rested in my ability to spring quickly and unexpectedly from beneath the window. Wanting to ensure that my father was indeed reclined in his chair a few feet from the window (the same position he’d been in much of his adult life), I slowly raised my large gorilla head until I could safely see inside. Quickly pulling my head back down, I motioned to my team that our victim was in position. This information was relayed via the use of the only hand signal I could think of – I gave them the thumbs up. Although, due to the size of the gorilla gloves covering my rather small hands, I can’t say for certain if they could tell what I was trying to indicate. Regardless, they sensed my readiness just the same.

Like a jack-in-the-box that’s lid was suddenly lifted, I sprung into view. Instead of throwing my arms into an aggressive stance, I stood ominously, my arms hanging limp along my sides. Simultaneously my father and his dog gasped in horror. My father grabbed his chest as he stared at the unexpected sight of me. His dog, which was resting beneath the front window inside, howled and rolled her head around as if she’d just spotted a wild animal – which in many ways she had.

My earliest memories are one’s in which my father was busy pranking someone. These memories continually bring a calming smile to my face and are the ones I work hard to remember. Now, through example, I teach my children the fine art of startling someone: the patience needed while buried in a dark corner, how to manipulate the hard-to-see-through masks, and of course, the importance of timing. My family didn’t practice traditions, not like those seen in the movies. But in many ways, whether he was aware of it or not, my dad passed down his own unique tradition to me. So, like my father before me, I am repeatedly slithering up behind one of my oblivious children just to zing them unexpectedly with pointed fingers jabbed into their sides. And like my father, my smile is wide as I watch them jump a few inches off the floor.

Sane