Vitafamiliae

Part 1

So the gate was locked.

The original arrangement with the leasing office was that they would leave us a gate opener and a set of keys in some mailbox.  There was nothing there.  Subsequent phone calls (I have no idea who I called at 1 in the morning.  But it might explain why our rent went up so quickly) meant I ended up negotiating with some janitor to leave his home and drive twenty minutes to punch in a code to let us in the fence.  And I’m pretty sure we had to pay a fee for that.

It was somewhere at this juncture that I sat down on the curb in my shorts and tennis shoes and cried.  I think I blubbered something into the phone like, “I have my mother-in-law and a whole bunch of people here with me and we’re going to be sleeping in the truck!  With the DOG!”

Yes, I’m prone to dramatics, what of it?

Eventually Mr. Janitor pulled up and let us in the gate.  But we still didn’t have a key to the apartment.  So he let us in with some sort of master key (creepy, creepy, creepy).  Sleepy, bewildered people wandered into our dark little one-bedroom apartment. In the dark, we could just make out the floors.  And the spots on the floor.  Even with no lights, we discerned that The carpet was littered with bugs. Apparently whoever cleaned the carpets for our arrival left all the windows open and whatever toxic sludge they used as cleaner had killed all the bugs that flew in the windows.

Welcome home, everybody.

We rummaged around the back of the U-Haul for a vacuum cleaner.  Gran vacuumed the bugs while we scrounged up blankets and sleeping surfaces for people.

And then I don’t remember anything after that, so I either lapsed into a coma or we all actually fell asleep.

The next day, we unloaded our truck, which, we were informed, was illegally parked, and tried to settle in.  Since we were young and poor, our possessions were relatively few and we finished in a timely fashion.  We all headed downtown to explore.

I don’t think I mentioned it, but we moved on Memorial Day weekend.  Do you know what happens in DC on Memorial Day weekend?  A bikers convention.  So we were greeted at all the familiar sites of our nation’s capitol by various and sundry versions of Hell’s Angels.  Nothing says “God Bless America” like leather jackets and Harleys, now does it?

Most of us got tired quickly and headed back to the apartment, but Andrew, J, and C decided to do some more exploring.  Of course, we didn’t really know what most of the buildings were, especially around the capitol, so they naturally headed there.

In the dark.

It was while climbing some steep steps around a stone lion that Andrew noticed the flashlight in his eyes.  National Park Service stared him down and asked him what he thought he was doing.  C and J scrambled up close to Andrew for support.  Andrew replied that they were just looking around.  The nice man in the uniform suggested they go look around some place besides the Supreme Court Building.  Now, this was before 9/11, so our fearless men thought this request was a bit obtuse.  They might have even argued a bit, right, C? After all, the steps of a building shouldn’t be off limits, even if it is 2 in the morning.

(This would not be the last time Andrew would tangle with the Supreme Court.  Go here to learn how he insulted one of the Justices at a birthday party.)

The next day, we said our goodbyes to our family and friends who had made the journey with us.  I can’t even talk about the scene Aubrey and I made.  It was pathetic.  But now that I look back on the trip, I think if I had been in Aubrey’s shoes, I would have been glad to get away from the idiots who dragged me across the country with a flat tire, a dog, and no entry into their own home.

Truthfully, it’s a wonder anybody who knows Andrew and I allow us to leave the house, let alone offer to travel with us.  That, my friends, takes a very special kind of love.

Or stupidity, I’m not sure which.

I’ve got another Samson story for you…

Our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple, I had class and Andrew got home from work before me.  When I arrived home, there was a trail of rose petals all over the house leading to a card inviting me to a fancy dinner with my cute hubby.  But Hubby was missing.  So was the dog.  I figured he was out taking Samson for a walk and wandered around in my happy romantic daze.

And then there was a knock on the door.

I opened the door to find Andrew with his arms full of dog.  Or at least, it must have been the dog.  It was covered in mud, but I detected Samson’s signature drool underneath a layer of muck.  Then the odor assaulted my senses and I took a step back, almost shutting the door in Andrew’s face.

He explained, “I had to take him on a walk so he wouldn’t eat the rose petals.  He got in the mud and then he rolled in something foul and now he’s GOT to have a bath.”

Understatement of the year.

We wrapped him in towels (no doubt the pretty ones we’d gotten as wedding presents) and carried him straight to our bathroom.  Andrew tossed him in the tub and we started wetting him down.  Somehow, Samson, feeling pretty frisky from all the excitement and the bathing and such, broke free, jumped out of the tub, and took off into the bedroom.

I don’t remember how we got him back to the tub.  It’s all sort of a blur of slipping, sliding, mud, and yelling.  At any rate, we wrestled him back to his bath, only to have him give a good ol’ doggy shake-shake-shake in the tub.  Red Alabama mud went EVERYWHERE.

By the time we had the dog and the bathroom clean, I had a roaring headache and we settled on sandwiches for dinner.  A few short months later, we moved out of that apartment and we passed it on to some friends of ours.  I believe I may have mentioned her a time or twelve, Aubrey.

Many years later, I was reminiscing about this story with Aubrey and I mentioned Samson shaking in the tub.  She stopped me, paused, and said, “You know, I used to lie in that tub soaking and stare at the ceiling, wondering how on earth that mud got on the ceiling.”

Now she knows.  Apparently, it isn’t safe to live anywhere we’ve been before.  The ceilings are guaranteed to be trashed.

The day those two pink lines showed up on a pregnancy test, I was beside myself with joy. After months of praying for just such a thing, Andrew and I were able to have our gleeful moment of celebration together. That same day, I went to Target to buy batteries but instead found myself meandering very slowly through the baby section.

My palms were sweaty from all the new hormones coursing through my body. I reached out swollen hands to finger little baby socks, baby blankets, baby hats. Then my eyes came to rest on a small, blue elephant. He had a green tail that played a lullaby when pulled. I glanced around guiltily to see if anyone was watching and then dropped the little guy in my basket. I took him home to Andrew and we curled up on our bed together and pulled the tail over and over, beaming.

But in a few short weeks, that pregnancy ended. I sat and held that elephant as I sobbed out my sorrow. Eventually, I put the elephant in a closet so I wouldn’t have the constant reminder of our baby that wasn’t.

In a few more months, more pink lines. Almost as soon as I’d delivered the good news to Andrew, I headed straight for the closet to pull out our elephant. We were more cautious in our joy this time, but no less excited at our miracle. We pulled the elephant’s tail and left him out to make us smile. (We had to keep him out of reach of Samson the Wonder Dog, of course, who would have disemboweled the elephant in twenty seconds. So the elephant mostly lived on our bed or on the couch.)

But there was sorrow at the end of that short pregnancy, too. I remember coming home from the doctor’s office after hearing that we were once again without child. I picked up that elephant and stroked his fuzzy head, a bittersweet smile showing through my tears. Through all of our disappointed hopes, God had proven Himself faithful and I clung to the promise of His sovereignty. I hugged the elephant close to my chest, whispered, “Some day,” and stuffed him high up in the closet where I couldn’t see him.

Fast forward six years.

I sat on my couch yesterday and watched the twins toss their toys around the living room. The rain that had driven us indoors yet again had also made us all slightly stir crazy. The kids had their box of stuffed animals out and were making piles of animals on the floor. Then they were jumping in the piles. They’d jump from creature to creature, grinning, yelling, and being their rambunctious little selves. Suddenly, underneath Ian’s foot, I noticed a blue trunk and a green tail.

There was our elephant. Being joyfully trampled on by no less than four (almost five) sets of little feet.

In the Old Testament, whenever God proved Himself to His people, they set up stones to help them remember His faithfulness. Here at the House of Vitafam, we’ve got a stuffed elephant, a pile of scrapbooks, and a whole lot of dirty footprints that fairly scream out His constancy. It may not be a literal pile of rocks, but they’re our stones of remembrance. How do YOU remember?

Another plague has descended up on the House of Vitafam.  A small one.  Just runny noses and such.  But to stop it from turning into something worse, I decided to be proactive. 

And y’all know I can’t be “proactive” the normal way.

First step:  garlic cloves.  I read or heard somewhere that eating a garlic clove could keep a cold at bay, so the last time I felt the sniffles coming on, I tried it.  Only I couldn’t think of any way to get it down, so I thought maybe I’d roll it in peanut butter like we used to do pills for the dog.  It was only after I got a spoonful of garlic peanut butter in my mouth that I realized I couldn’t just swallow peanut butter.  And then there was Andrew, standing in the kitchen guffawing at me, so that made it a little hard to swallow, too.  It wasn’t pleasant, but I got that clove down and felt much better the next day.   

Conving the kids to eat garlic would be tricky.  I tried mixing it with juice and honey first.  Sam took one sip, spit it all over the floor, and ran screaming from the room.  I bribed Adam with extra juice and he took it, one sip of garlic juice for one sip of regular juice.  This shamed Ian into the same thing.  Ellen took it cheerfully because she didn’t know any better.

It took a bit more begging and cajoling, but I got a few little bits of garlic down Sam.  Andrew took his like a man, in a shot glass.

I left the house to run an errand and when I walked back in the front door, the smell of garlic assaulted my senses.  The House of Vitafam… reeked.

I wasn’t satisfied, though.  I was concerned they didn’t get enough garlic in the juice.  So my friend Aubrey suggested tomato sauce.  I tried it on myself first.  Went down easy. 

So we had spaghetti for dinner.  Then I offered everybody a taste of my sauce.  Hidden on each spoon was a half a clove of garlic.  Ellen took it, made a face, and wandered off.  The other three were on the couch watching TV, so they were just distracted enough not to totally melt down.  Sam screamed, “It’s SPIC-EEEEEEEE!”

And then it was over. 

We also decided that the kids needed to have their noses cleaned out before bed.  We use this syringe thingy (similar to a neti pot) to shoot salt water through their sinuses.  We told the boys Daddy was going to “shoot them” before bed and they got excited.

They may never trust us again.

It wasn’t the first time they’d seen the syringe, but it had been awhile.  Sam went first and was a champ.  No screaming.  He said, “Hey!  I can breathe!” and scampered off.  Next up was Adam.  Who wailed like we were prying his fingernails off.  The windows were open, so I’m sure the neighborhood enjoyed that.  Ian, otherwise known as Mr. Drama, nearly busted one of my ear drums with all his screaming.

Once Ian had been soothed, we turned toward Ellen, who had been standing by silently.  Andrew reached out to pick her up and she said a quiet, “no” before high-tailing it out of the kitchen.  That was the fastest we’d ever seen her move.  Knees and elbows, butt waggling behind her, that kid was outta there.  Andrew chased her (not very hard because he was laughing so much) all the way through the downstairs before she ended up in the kitchen again.  He scooped her up and she had nothing but a surprised look on her face through the entire procedure. 

 Today, everyone has runny noses still but they all seem to feel much better.

But they may never eat my spaghetti sauce again.

For those of you who didn’t know we had a dog… We don’t.  But we did.  His name was Samson.

Shortly after we got Samson, we discovered that he had The Separation Anxiety.  He had it bad.  Even though he came to us crate trained, he freaked out whenever we left him home alone in it, and our neighbors complained.  So we tried gating him in the kitchen.  We very shortly discovered that Samson did what any other red-blooded mammal does when he’s stressed:  he ate.

Sometimes we thought he had a Bucket List of “Things I Want To Eat Some Day” tucked away in the folds of his droopy jowls.  On that list he had things like:

• so many diapers he poops cotton mushrooms in the backyard
• thermometers
• nasal aspirators
• an entire bag of Hershey Kisses, foil and all
• $300 worth of library books

We got very good at pushing things as far back on the counter as we could so Samson couldn’t “counter-surf.”  (And it only took us three loaves of bread, two bags of chips, and a bunch of bananas to figure that out.)  One day when I returned home from class, I noticed as soon as I opened the door that something wasn’t right.  I couldn’t hear Samson whimpering and throwing himself at the gate in the kitchen.  Matter of fact, I couldn’t hear him at all.  Being a naive Samson-owner, I assumed this meant he had finally come to terms with being left and all our troubles were over.

And then I saw the pile of shredded paper waiting for me at the top of the steps.

Closer inspection revealed the paper to be a W2 tax form.  Samson shared our opinion of the IRS, I guess.

But I still didn’t know where the dog was.  He certainly wasn’t in the kitchen any more.  I looked in the living room.  There, on the floor, was an open bottle of Aleve.  Samson had opened the childproof cap and strewn the contents of the bottle all over the living room.  Since some of the pills were wet and drooled on, I had to assume that these were the remains of the pills he’d consumed.

So now I was on the hunt for my dead dog.

I finally heard him bumping around in the bathroom.  The door was closed.  He had shut himself in.  The first thing that greeted me in the room was the smell.  Apparently some of the pills just went right on through his system.  Then I saw the box of hair-cutting supplies that I used to cut Andrew’s hair.  It was open and the scissors were on the floor.  Samson turned to look at me, a stressed-out look in his eye and a bottle of Tums in his mouth.

At least he had the sense to seek out a bottle of antacids.

Samson spent three days at the vet for that little episode.  The vet reported that he eagerly ate the charcoal they needed him to swallow before they pumped his stomach.

Nobody was surprised.  For a dog that had tried to commit suicide with pills, scissors, and antacids, he had a very healthy appetite.

And, bonus for him, he got to check a few more items off his Bucket List.

Yet another Virginia story we want to remember years down the road…

Back in the day (that would be pre-kids), we actually went and DID STUFF in the DC area. One Sunday, I noticed an announcement in the church bulletin advertising a private evening tour of the capitol building, given by David Barton. Now, I remembered listening to this man’s tapes with my dad and reading a few of his books. I knew he was big into history (like myself) and that this tour was not to be missed. Unfortunately, this was one of the rare occasions when our church seemed to be pandering to its “upper crust” and asked for a sizable donation in order to participate. Being young and on a budget was not about to get in my way. I called the church office and asked: if there was still room on the bus, could Andrew and I volunteer our time to help out in exchange for getting to go on the tour? Because the pastor in charge of this little jaunt, although a great guy, is a bit spacey when it comes to details, his secretary was more than happy to have our help when it came to the mundane things like handing out food, etc. We had us a deal.

So, in exchange for passing out a few brown bags, we got to ride on the tour bus downtown. Mr. Barton had a suitcase full of some of his primary document collections and he lugged that around with him through the tour. At the appropriate moment, he’d pick up a musty, aged copy of a book or letter and use it to make his point about what the founding fathers REALLY intended in their work. Very heady stuff. Really.

He took us into the statue room, which used to be the room where they met. He showed us how there were special spots you could stand and hear what others across the room were whispering. He talked about how the politicians used this acoustical magic in their favor to learn secrets and manipulate others. What he also pointed out was that the acoustics made for a great concert. He suggested that we very gently sing a song to get the full impact. So the whole group of us sang “God Bless America” in the still, eerie darkness of the capitol building. It was magic, I tell ya. Something awe-inspiring about being in that building, knowing what it stood for, and yet rebellious, singing a song in a building not meant for concerts, a building whose occupants have become less synonymous with what it stands for with each passing year. We drew a few security guards, but they only smiled and thanked us for jazzing up their night a bit.

Later, Mr. Barton led us onto the floor of the House. (We had one or two congressional representatives with us, in case you’re wondering how we got away with all of this. This was also pre 9/11, I believe.) We got to walk around and see where everyone sat. I had on a scarf that, like everything I owned at the time, was covered in Samson hair. Andrew and I got the giggles and in a fit of ridiculousness, pulled a Samson hair off my scarf and put it in the minority leader’s chair. That dog gets around for sure.

The capitol building at night is truly a special place. Eerie, ghost-like, echoing. It was such a thrill to get to be a part of that little tour, even if we did have to do a little side job or two. And Andrew and I have never been able to watch any TV coverage from the House without grinning at the thought of some politician wearing Samson hair on his fanny. Some dry cleaner downtown is a wealthy man because of us, I’m sure of it.

I’ve had an update from Samson’s other mother and thought I would clue in those of you who were curious. First of all, it was NOT his dog food. Samson ate Purina, which was just about the only brand that wasn’t on the list of contaminated foods. (Apparently, he was supposed to eat Eukanuba, which is what we fed him here, but he liked his buddy Madison’s food so much, i.e. he stole it, that she let them both be Purina dogs.) The test results showed that Samson had an intestinal virus, but that it is more than likely not what killed him. They believe there was some unknown illness, such as heart disease, that caused him to die. There were several options presented, but the one that makes the most sense to those of us who loved and knew him is that something was wrong with his heart.

Samson has always been lethargic, as you all well know. When he was a puppy, I called the breeder to make sure his behavior was normal. She assured me he was just “being Clumber.” I think she was right. He liked his naps, but he could be made to run and play, and he enjoyed his walks. A few years ago, we noticed he did NOT enjoy walks any more and rarely ran anywhere. We assumed he was mellowing with age. Maybe so. When Stephanie got him, she wondered about him, too, because he seemed to nap much more than her other Clumber. She said he’d get up to go out and would stop to take a nap on the way. So apparently he was getting more and more lethargic, but because of the change in ownership, no one could compare it to previous behavior and notice a shift. In addition, no matter how much blood work was done, nothing showed up, so there’s no way the vet could have known, or done anything differently.

It’s a bit hard not to know anything for sure, but it does explain a few things about our weird little dog. In church on Sunday, Andrew found a Samson hair on some pants he hadn’t worn in awhile. We both sat and looked at it for a bit, completely missing that portion of the sermon. We still miss him. Who would have thought the hair that has clogged my vacuum cleaner, filled our HVAC unit, and covered the floors would seem so… sweet? In a way, I’m glad we’re still finding little reminders of him all around. Anyone who met him can attest, this dog was definitely memorable. Thanks to all of you who have expressed sympathy and curiosity about him. It’s nice to know we’re not alone in feeling bad about this. And I’m sure if Samson were here, he’d enjoy all this positive attention. I can just imagine him harrumphing onto his big cushion and sighing, “My adoring public. Everything is exactly how it should be.” Zzzzzzzzzz…

Some of you have asked what happened to Samson. Most of you know, Samson went to a new home about six months ago. There he was spoiled and loved beyond his wildest imagination. He had another Clumber to nap with and lots of toys to gnaw on. Plus, prime napping conditions . Samson got sick Monday, but the vet couldn’t find anything wrong. Wednesday morning, they decided he had a blockage and needed surgery. Before they could proceed, Samson died. They’re still not sure why. We are, of course, very sad to think that he’s not somewhere in the world out there, spreading hair and disdain. I’m glad I got to say good-bye, but he will still be terribly missed. He was our “firstborn” and he could always make me laugh. His memory still does. That’s a good dog…

SAMSON FANNING 1999-2007

Enjoy your nap, Pup.

For those of you devoted souls who have waited with bated breath for an update from Samson the Wonder Dog, you may now exhale. Here ’tis.

Samson’s new mommy has been so kind in keeping me updated with pictures and funny stories. Knowing he is so well taken care of has made all the difference in this transition for me. Samson appears to have adjusted well. He and Uncle Madison get along great. Madison moved over obligingly to make room for Samson on the couch and I’m not sure Samson’s gotten up since. Stephanie (his new mom) did tell me that he went through a period where he insisted on sleeping curled up around the toilet in the bathroom. He has since moved on to a more comfy spot in the guest room. She has a hard time getting his picture because if she’s in sight, he insists on being cuddled. Nothing new there. She describes the photo shoot escapades like this:

I tried on Friday, Saturday and Sunday to get cute pictures of both of the boys together- what a nightmare. I would get them both sitting down and Samson would have an overwhelming urge to lick anything inappropriate or Madison would roll all of way over and all you could see was the inside of his lips. I gave up and went and got in the bath tub and they both came in there and laid down side by side facing the same direction right next to the toilet! It’s like they know and they were just trying to tell me that they can do it if THEY decide to.

According to the vet, Samson has gained six pounds of “muscle,” no doubt due in part to the extra special treats bestowed on him by his new grandparents. Hamburgers are a new fave, although I’m sure he’d still go to the door for the pizza guy.

Samson, you will note, is the one in front who is licking his paw in his sleep. Stephanie says she had the same fear I did when I got him: that he was ill because he’s such a sleepy guy. Now that I’m napping more in my third trimester, I think I miss him that much more for the commiseration he offered. He was always happy to join me in a nap, whatever the occasion. I miss that face!

And here he is, in all his Wonder Dog glory sending you all Season’s Greetings and a Bah Humbug. He says not to fret, he has gone to his just reward. And so he has. Good dog, Samson, good dog.