Bobbi and Kenny McCaughey seem like an awfully nice young couple. Their seven new babies are cute as seven little dickenses. Their two-year-old daughter is sure to be a loving and devoted big sister.

So now that the national astonishment has subsided, now that the septuplets — knock wood — are doing well, it would be a good time for everybody not directly connected by blood or friendship to utter one last “My, how unusual” and restart minding their own business. Ma and Pa McCaughey have enough to do without being hectored by strangers and certainly without having to answer idiotic questions from the media.

No sooner were the seven little McCaugheys out of the womb when dad was asked if he was going to sue the fertility doctor. This guy’s on cloud nine, he’s thanking God for his cornucopia of blessings and he’s supposed to be thinking about litigation.

Then, as soon as the elated mother is strong enough to meet the press, she’s grilled on whether she ever thought about abortion. Given her strong religious beliefs, she might as well have been asked if she ever thought about riding a bike to Neptune.

Unwilling to take “no” for an answer, the media charged ahead and enlisted a host of pundits and that peculiar breed of hand-wringers known as ethicists to opine that if she didn’t consider abortion, she should have. Why, they fretted, some of those tightly packed tykes could have been damaged. That they weren’t didn’t matter.

Now, print and broadcast worrywarts are in a lather over money. All those doctors and nurses, the equipment, the intensive care — a flagrant waste of scarce resources. This in a country that spends a fortune keeping the terminally ill alive for three extra days. Some have even suggested that Iowa taxpayers ought to be ripped about the impact this will have on their school budget. And what about all those little babies in Africa that don’t get free diapers?

Sometimes just plain folks are thrust into the spotlight because they’ve been part of a special event, but it’s time to douse the light when the event has been duly noted. Unless the McCaugheys form their own semi-pro baseball team or rhythm-and-blues revue, this is that time. The show’s over, people. There’s nothing more to see. Move along.