To Oink or Not to Oink...

Word at the playground is that swine flu is sweeping Lovetown. No one’s had the H1N1 shot here at the funny farm…yet. Haven’t quite decided whether we’re going to go there. We’re vaccinators around here. It’s always made me slightly uneasy--it’s naturally a little nervewracking to voluntarily subject your little kid to something that could hurt him, even if the chances are incredibly slim. Plus they always give you those really scary handouts at the doctors office (talk about bad PR…). But I remain convinced that the risks of preventable childhood illnesses far outweigh any risks related to vaccination, and that the public health aspect can’t be overlooked. On a certain level I support people’s right not to vaccinate, but I must say it seems like a pretty selfish thing to do. I mean really, non-vaccinators are essentially relying on the fact that the rest of us do it to keep their kids from getting some potentially fatal illness. (You’re welcome guys). It seems like a pretty right wing-y kind of thing to do but it’s unfortunately become a part of the crunchy orthodoxy. This article in Wired laid it all out pretty well.

Anyway, we will continue to get the prescribed childhood vaccines because I think it’s the best thing for my kids and for society. And yet, there’s something about the H1N1 thing that makes me not want to rush out and get it. It seems like it was thrown together in a hurry, and I keep hearing about docs who say they won’t vaccinate their own kids. I’m skeptical of the effectiveness of the whole flu shot thing to begin with, and my anti-vaccine connections on facebook add to my unease.

However, my little sis, a pediatrician and mother whom I trust more than anyone else on this issue, says get it if you can. And so, in the end, we probably will. But my whole internal debate may be immaterial. My doctor’s office doesn’t have it yet and our local health department is already out, at least temporarily. I read somewhere that the Obama girls haven’t gotten theirs yet, so my kids can wait too. Meanwhile, we’ll be rocking the vitamin C--and vitamin D-rich cod liver oil. Should note that the fish oil thing is not popular with some of my vegetarian friends on FB (“Think about how many little livers go into one ounce of that stuff,” my old friend Betty recently implored). Sometimes you just can’t win.

Remembrances of Meatballs Past

My mother in law periodically gets a charitable urge and decides to unload a bunch of canned/processed food items from her pantry on us. The gestures are certainly kind but I must say her shopping choices confound me. She’s a die-hard proponent of processed food (one of my all time favorite betes noires). So all of a sudden, my kitchen is full of bizarre products I would never buy--baked beans, corned beef hash, canned pasta products and so on.

The other day, after the latest round came in, I had a bunch of cans sitting on the table while I made some room in the far corners of my cabinets (I have decided to make them into emergency rations in the event of some kind of bioterrorist attack). Hank, who I am proud to say, has never eaten ravioli (or anything else of that nature) from a can, immediately zeroed in on the Chef Boyardee pasta with meatballs and asked to have that for a snack. (I asked him about the choice and he said it was based on the guy in the funny hat on the front—clearly their cheesy marketing is right on target). OK…I grew up in the 70s and we ate our share of spaghetti-o’s and didn’t mutate or anything. So I gave in. Really, what is one HFCS, MSG, sodium laden can of GMO pasta and hormone treated beef going to hurt? The boy and I split the can. He ate his bowl right away. I found it mushy, cloying, but not entirely unpleasant. However, the madeleine-style 1977 flashback I was hoping for did not occur—just a mild case of indigestion.

A Little Reality Check

I have pretty much avoided posting photos of my children on this blog. For one thing, I suppose I prefer the false sense of security on facebook. For another, showing off my cute kids is not really what this space is about for me.

However, a conversation I had with an old friend during my recent (fabulous) trip to New York has inspired me to lay this one on y’all.This friend was giving me updates on a few of his former colleagues whom I had known (through him) during my years in the big city. One friend of his, a lovely woman about my age (that would be late 30s last time I checked), married an American guy who owns a vineyard in Tuscany. I didn’t know this woman well, but enjoyed catching up with her a bit at our mutual friend’s wedding last year, after which she sent me a friend request on facebook. She doesn’t seem to get on much except to post occasional photos of her (apparently) amazing life in Italy (handsome husband, beautiful young daughter, nice vacations etc).

My friend says that while her life is undoubtedly fabulous and all, he gets the sense that she often feels isolated out there amongst the vines and has trouble connecting with other women. Hmmm….sound familiar? Now, that is not to say that Tuscany has anything in common with exurban hell. But still, it got me thinking.

After that conversation, it occurred to me that if someone I didn’t know very well were to evaluate my life based on the pictures I post on facebook, he or she would be given the impression that my life is a piece of cake. (Beautiful kids, nice scenery etc.). So, I decided to take a few pics that more accurately reflected the day-to-day situation. As in screaming child covered with snot and hummus. Eat your heart out Carla B.

All Carla All the Time

It’s been Bee Zee around here this fall so have had no time to indulge my enduring girlcrush on Carla Bruni. Didn’t even catch a single picture of her and Michelle in Pittsburgh. But my days of Carla deprivation are officially over : I can now keep up with her comings and goings thanks to her new website (launched yesterday). She already has a site dedicated to her singing career-- this one covers her activities as France’s first lady, AIDS activism and her foundation which (according to the new site) is focused on bringing access to the arts to low income kids.

Surprisingly, the new site made it to the top of the leftwing Libération website, where reader comments ranged from indifferent to mildly disgusted. The lefties are so over her over there. I’m no fan of Sarko and would love to hate her myself but just can’t break the spell.

Do They Still Make Garanimals?

On a recent (fabulous) visit to New York, I made a quick stop at the H&M at Herald Square while en route from one outer borough to another. I bought a knit hat for Coco and package of underpants for Hank. The briefs were rolled up in their little box, and all I could see were the pictures of construction equipment, which appeared to be right up his alley. Little did I know I was purchasing a six pack of Euro slingshots. The boy could not care less and is happy to have another pair of drawers with a backhoe on the front. But I can’t help giggling a little when he puts them on (especially the orange ones with the steamroller). Guess that’s what I get for shopping Scandinavian…

I’m a terrible shopper and rarely buy retail for my kids (or for myself when I think about it). These people are thoroughly second hand: hand me downs, yard sales, thrift stores, CraigsList—that’s how we roll around here. My little beauties generally don’t wind up looking exactly as I’d have them in a perfect world. It’s particularly hard to style a little rocker chick with suburban castoffs--Coco has way more pink in her wardrobe than she would if I was sourcing firsthand (I’m more of an earth tone kind of gal). But the sad truth is, pink is what’s out there. I have drawn the line at Dora and the Disney princesses and pretty much any annoying television characters. Whenever we inherit anything with that kind of obscene commercial display, it goes right back into circulation via the charity thrift shop my mother helps operate. I do a pretty good job with the recycled threads at my disposal, I have to say. But we’re a far cry from Madison Avenue.

My NYC adventures with Coco included a lovely Saturday afternoon in Manhattan, where we checked out the hipster infested playground in Madison Square Park with our wonderful hosts. Bugaboo strollers lined the perimeter, and the fashions on the kids were pretty impressive. More than enough to give this hayseed mama a complex. I often think about how great things would be if only I had been able to convince Christian to move to Brooklyn when we decided to commit. How enjoyable it would be to raise kids in my old neighborhood in Williamsburg. But I’m really not so sure I could handle it--we just don’t have the wardrobe for it. Remaining fashion forward in Lovetown is hard enough.