On Friday I received an email from Russell Goldman of ABC News. He had seen my blog entries about the HPV vaccine, and wanted to interview me for an article.

OK, I’m game, I thought, as I emailed my phone number.

A few minutes later, I was telling him my problem with the vaccine: that the government mandating its use without sufficient proof of its safety and for something that is only spread through sexual contact is wrong.

I don’t have a problem with a parent making that choice for their child (although I do fear that parents are overly trusting and ignorant of the risks, including death). I’m not saying my children will never receive the vaccine, and I can think of reasons why they should get it. My problem is with governmental interference and the use of my children as human lab rats.

After several minutes of making my point and sticking to it, Mr. Goldman thanked me for my time, but he admitted he was looking for someone who was basically just opposed to the vaccine because they felt it would encourage their children to have sex.

No kidding, I thought.

His article is here. He did manage to find a mother who could provide the quotes he wanted, so my voice of reason is missing. It reminds me of research papers in high school and college where I would blatantly ignore any literature that didn’t agree with my thesis and selectively quote those that did. In essence, the HPV vaccine is all good, and the only people who are opposed are religious nuts.

Now, that last sentence was sarcastic, but certainly somebody could quote me out of context to make it seem like I approve of the vaccine.

I had to run an errand in St. Joseph, Mo yesterday and dragged the kids away from the usual Saturday mid-day neighborhood happy hour where adults and kids alike were outside enjoying the pleasant weather. They were not excited to be leaving their friends to go to a museum for mandatory family fun. Heck, I didn’t want to go myself. But I wasn’t going to waste all that gas to get to St. Joe’s and not do something else while there.

We went to the Pony Express National Museum. It was great. Well, good. I wouldn’t build a major travel vacation around visiting it or even visiting St. Joseph’s, but it was worth the 45 minute drive, and Bill was happy to have four hours of peace and quiet.

Peter in the saddle.

Katie pumping water for the horses.

The kids at a relay station waiting for the mail.

Fritz in buckskin.

Billy in a coonskin cap.

Across the street at a playground they had this stagecoach. Katie is the horse, of course.

It cost $4 for adults and $2 per kid over age 7. In the bookstore, I picked up three books for kids, including two based-on-fact easy readers. Total cost for tour, books and one piece of candy per child for good behavior: $30.

Yesterday evening, I was putting on my coat, and Bill was buckling the baby in her seat when the phone rang. The restaurant where we had dinner reservations at 6 pm was calling to apologize, but the entire place had been booked for a private party, and they couldn’t accommodate us that night. Had this guy waited another minute to call us, we would have been out the door.

We went to the Kansas City Originals website to look for another restaurant. This website is great:

The Kansas City Originals exists to promote dining in local independent area restaurants, to provide diners with a unique local flavor and to raise awareness of independent restaurants both locally and nationally.

I totally dig that idea. When we traveled out here from Virginia last summer, we stopped at chain restaurant after chain restaurant. It was fine, because I needed to feed little children and didn’t need any extra stress related to noses turned up at the different ways individual chefs prepare similar dishes. McDonalds chicken nuggets in Ohio taste just like McDonalds chicken nuggets in Missouri.

But when we got to town, I pointed to the local Applebees and said, “We will never eat there.” And so far, we haven’t. We don’t go out often, but when we have, it has been to privately owned places (although we have done take out pizza and an occasional chicken nugget lunch at nationally known chains).

So, last night we picked another place and off we went. It is so nice to eat at a place that does not have a children’s menu. Mary was the only person in the joint under 25. She received lots and lots of attention, and behaved perfectly. She made me look like a fantastic mother. There was a pregnant woman dining nearby, and I really hope it’s not her first. She’ll be sadly mistaken that babies are really easy, and cry herself to sleep when her little one doesn’t sit nicely for twenty minutes quietly babbling a chorus of “uh-BUH-buh-buh” before settling down to discreetly nurse to sleep and allow herself to be placed on the upholstered bench next to mom.

Babies, by the way, kill the social life of a woman. I haven’t been hit on for ten years. If you are a single woman looking for love, do not take your little niece or nephew out in public.

But babies do wonders for men. I don’t know why it is, but single women flock to guys with babies. My husband, who is a dashing fellow, has been hit on more times in the last ten years than he ever was in his whole bachelor life. And the more children he has, the more attractive he becomes. Go figure.

Apparently, single gay men also are attracted to men with babies. I did not hear the man, who was obviously flirting with my husband, when he asked, “Yours?” If I had, I would have quickly said, “Oh, we’re just friends,” just to see if my husband could have scored a phone number. But Bill proudly admitted to being the father of six and ruined any fun.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening out. The house was trashed when we got home (why did I bother to straighten up before the babysitter came?), but everybody was happy.

Yesterday, I received the following comment on this old blog post:

We found a lump under my daughter’s chin on Tuesday. After 2 antibiotic shots and oral antibiotics the doctors have decided it may not be a swollen lymph node and have arranged for a CT scan. I was scouring the internet for info and found your blog. I found your words comforting and identified with your thought of only God can truly comfort you at a time like this..our husbands may try but that is too much to expect of one person. I pray our outcome is as positive as yours, but covet the prayers of your family and any other prayer warriors who read your blog for our 2 year old daughter, Sarah.

Please pray for little Sarah, and also for her family.

My whole life, I’ve had the Beatles’ song, “Michelle,” sung to me. When I was little, I thought it was cute. When I was a teen, I thought it was embarrassing. By the time I was in my twenties, I thought it was old. I think I dated my husband because he didn’t sing that song. When I worked, after college and before “retiring” to be a stay-at-home mom, I spent a lot of time on the phone with slimeballs salesmen. At least half of them would sing that to me…and think it clever and original.

Since naming our daughter Mary, I’ve had the line, “Mary, Mary, why you buggin’?” running through my head. This past weekend, Bill and I found Run DMC’s video. It’s pretty funny. But I think you had to be a teen/young adult in the 80’s to truly appreciate it.

Here are the lyrics:

Mary Mary Mary you cold thumb suckin
Lookin for you, but you keep duckin
I wanna find you, I gotta tell you somethin
So just be quiet and don’t say NUTTIN
Mary Mary Mary why you out there stuntin?
Supposed to be with me, but now you’re FRONTIN
We started out new, you used to be true
Now you’re buggin, what’s wrong with you?

“Mary, Mary..” WHY YA BUGGIN?
“Mary, Mary..” I NEED YA HUGGIN

Now that I’ve heard the line in context, I’m trying to get it out of my head. “Michelle, my beautiful” might be annoying, but it’s nice. “Mary, why are you prostituting yourself?” is not a question I’d like to sing to my little girl! (Although the line after that isn’t bad.) I asked my neighbor, named Mary, if she knew of any songs about a girl named Mary. She didn’t.

{sigh}

I spent the first year after Jenny was born singing “867-5309.” I still haven’t found a good song with her name in it.

Katie, though, is much luckier. My parents started singing this one right away, and I sang it often when she was a baby.

K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.