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.

Bikini Atoll’s Nuked Coral Reef Bounces Back to Life

The tiny island was the site of hydrogen bomb testing in the 1950’s. One test in particular was devastating:

The massive explosion vaporized everything on three islands in the atoll, raised water temperatures to 55,000 degrees and left a crater that was 1.2 miles (2 kilometers) wide and 240 feet (73 meters) deep.

But there’s good news:

A team of scientists recently led a diving expedition into Bravo Crater and found an unexpectedly thriving coral community.

Some bad news:

Though ambient radiation readings are fairly low at Bikini, radioactive material accumulates in the soil and in produce such as coconuts, making them unsafe to eat.

I guess that means The Krusty Krab wouldn’t be a recommended spot for hungry travelers?

I have a friend. I haven’t known her very long, but every time we get together, I like her more and more.

She is a convert to the faith, and she has an incredible story of her journey from being raised in an atheist and dysfunctional household through drug dependency and to the brink of suicide where she stumbled into a Catholic Church near the end of Holy Week and found physical healing. She and her husband, with a conversion story of his own, joined the Church several years later as an engaged couple and were married within a week of their initiation.

They were young – early twenties – and, like most young adults, still had a lot of growing up to do. But neither of them had any idea about how to be Catholic. Of course, adult catechises is practically non-existent in most parishes, and most Catholics assume that the majority of us are cradle Catholics or married to cradle Catholics. Those who somehow find their way to the Catholic Church on their own are pretty much left to figure it all out by themselves. And this just doesn’t work well for those who don’t have a Catholic support system.

As an example, her two sons are three years apart. When the younger one was a baby they sought baptism – for both of them. The priest couldn’t believe that their three year old wasn’t baptised yet. They had no idea that it was something you should do as soon as you reasonably could. It was out of ignorance that they neglected it.

Anyway, my friend, like all of us, is still on the journey to holiness. About a year or so ago, she began to evaluate her wardrobe, especially what she wore to church. She hadn’t really thought much about her appearance before, but she was starting to consider that perhaps the current fashions were not appropriate for Mass. She had worn spaghetti strap tops and a halter top dress. But on her own she was starting to consider what an educated Catholic would call the virtue of modesty. This was the Holy Spirit whispering to her.

Just at this point, a pious mother of many left a book on her car about how women should dress modestly for Mass. She had anonymously done this to several women at the church who had all felt hurt, but nobody had said anything to her. My friend, who had admired this woman from afar for her devotion, confronted her. The woman admitted putting the book on her car, said that she had been wanting to say something for six months (the whole time my friend had been a parishioner there), and called my friend “a stumbling block of sin to the men of the parish.”

Well, now.

The spiritual works of mercy are:

To instruct the ignorant;
To counsel the doubtful;
To admonish sinners;
To bear wrongs patiently;
To forgive offences willingly;
To comfort the afflicted;
To pray for the living and the dead.

There is no question that my friend could have used some instruction and admonishing, but…

We can not know fully where someone is on their journey to God. We can not expect that with conversion of heart will naturally follow sin-free behavior or even understanding of the basic rudiments of faith. We can not compare our journey of 30 or 40 or 50 years from childhood with wonderful role-models to someone else’s journey of 10 years with no assistance save that of the Spirit.

Of course, this woman did not know of my friend’s journey. She didn’t know that my friend was open to advice and counsel if done charitably. She didn’t know that my friend was already thinking about modesty. And that’s exactly my point.

Because now this pious woman, who likely meant well by her actions, has become a stumbling block of sin for my friend. Her method was so blunt, so hurtful, that my friend still struggles to forgive the injury. She’s only human.

There are many ways to be a witness for Christ. There are many ways to perform the spiritual works of mercy. Only the Spirit knows the best way for each person at any particular time, which is why prayer is so necessary when trying to serve the Lord.

I only hope that in my own zeal I have not been a stumbling block of sin for someone else.

I would like to get up at 5 am. There is so much that I can accomplish in those early morning hours: uninterrupted, quiet, calm, peaceful. I love that time of day.

Bill would like to get up at 6 am. He doesn’t have to leave, usually, until after 8 am, and he hates to rush. But two hours for breakfast, getting ready, and reading the Drudge Report is plenty for him.

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, we’ve been living in the Land of Nod. Bill’s classes have him “burning the midnight oil” – notice the lamps on his unit patch? They aren’t kidding.

Bill has been going to bed between midnight and 2 am, and I, stupidly, have been pushing my own bedtime later as well, I guess because I’m not used to going to bed without him. Well, I am used to going to bed without him, but without him physically anywhere nearby. I’m not used to saying goodnight to him and going to sleep while he, poor man, is making himself a cup of tea at 11 pm to help him stay awake.

Yesterday morning, I woke up at 6:53 am. (I had been up an hour earlier with the baby, but fell back asleep.) I nudged Bill to get him up, and then snuggled back into the pillow. A minute later, Bill leaned over me and broke the bad news, “You have a doctor’s appointment.” I had a half hour to get out the door with Mary for her 6 month well baby.

She went in her pajamas.

Last night, I went to bed at 10 pm. I’d like to say it was an act of discipline that put me there, but, honestly, I was loading the washing machine when Mary started to cry. Had I not had to respond to her, I would have gone on to fold the clothes I had taken out of the dryer and possibly tried to put the play room in some sort of order (read: hid 25% of the toys until I can smuggle them out of the house to donate them to the thrift store).

I’m going to force myself to drop everything at 930 pm. Maybe I’ll even set an alarm. I just can’t compete with my husband, and I shouldn’t try. Early to bed, early to rise.