What I Told EPA About the Climate Crisis and Parenting

IMG_0753We ask our kids to be responsible. Brave, even. To venture out into the world with a sense that it is theirs — to explore, to learn about, and also to care for.

So today I asked the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to do the same when it comes to developing new standards for carbon emissions for power plants. Working with the incredible Molly Rauch from Moms Clean Air Force, I testified at a public listening session downtown.

Here is what I said:

Good morning. My name is Laura MacCleery and I’m a public interest lawyer and blogger. But I’m here today as the mom of a wonderful three-year-old girl to tell you why the EPA should act for her and the other children here and around the world to quickly issue strong rules limiting carbon emissions from power plants.

Forty percent of U.S. emissions – 2.3 billion tons – come from power plants. This rule has tremendous power to address one of the major sources of climate disruption. It is an opportunity not to be wasted. Real leadership from EPA would allow the U.S. to act responsibly to address our role in causing a rapid, incipient change in global temperatures.

We don’t have much time. A study in the journal Nature last month found that by the year 2047 – when my daughter Maya is only 37 years old – Washington, D.C., will have a radically altered climate, in which even the coldest monthly dips will be warmer than over the past 150 years. Oxford researchers recently found the ocean’s rate of acidification is the fastest in 300 million years. An Australian researcher showed that by the time my daughter is middle-aged, large parts of the oceans will have slimy cynobacteria – basically black goop – where coral reefs should be. This is not the world I would like to pass on to my daughter.

I try to be a conscientious parent raising a responsible child. One who picks up after herself, and shares her toys without too many complaints. But I wonder, how will she look at me – how will our children think about any of us – if we don’t do what we can to stop climate change, right now? What will it mean to be human on this altered planet? And how will our children see themselves if we don’t act today: if we don’t do the most we can, using what we know, to curb climate change and to reduce the threat it poses to the systems that sustain our lives?

I’ll be 76 years old in 2047 – assuming I’m still around. Should I just tell Maya, then: sorry, we didn’t think it was worthwhile to even try to save your pleasant weather, or prevent asthma, or help prevent catastrophe to our agriculture, our wildlife and to the millions of people living in the tropics displaced by rising tides and violent weather?

I won’t be able to say we didn’t see it coming. The policy case, the scientific case, even the economic case have all been amply made. So I’m asking the EPA, on behalf of the many parents who couldn’t be here today, to act with real political gumption. To look past industry’s predictable objections and the facile compromises that could weaken a standard.

To make this moment – this rule – transformative, much like the fuel economy standards set in the 1970s that were aggressively front-loaded and ended up weaning the U.S. off its dependence on foreign oil for several decades. There is no progress without some disruption, but we are choosing between reform today and catastrophe tomorrow.

Decisive government action in this area would be smart and responsible, but it would also be – and I’ll just say it out loud – an act of love. Your job on this one is clear, and has high stakes. We always tell toddlers to use their words. So here are mine for you: Be bold. Brave. Creative. Visionary. Carpe Diem. Change our lives, and those of our children. Use your words for good.

Basically, I’m saying, make us proud, EPA. Make me proud. Don’t muddle along. Don’t accept half-measures that cut our future short.

Instead, be a super-hero. Get right to work to save this world for my child, and for all the other children who are looking up to us to do the right thing.

Laura at EPA###

My panel partner was terrific — he actually sang his comments in a moving, minor-key ballad on climate disruption. It rocked.

You can weigh in too. There are still sessions this week on November 8th in Chicago and Philadelphia. Here’s how to sign up. There are also instructions at that link about how to submit online written comments if you can’t appear in person.

Please, join me in telling the EPA that it must seize this moment to act to reduce carbon emissions, for our children and our planet. Let them know you’re watching, and you care about this enormous opportunity to do something substantial to help prevent a climate crisis.

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The Best and Worst Week, Basically Ever

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly (Photo credit: Cayusa)

I’ll start, as one always should, with the good news. On Friday, the state of California, acting at the direction of Governor Jerry Brown, has proposed a revised flammability standard for furniture that would require no chemicals!

The new rule, which is undergoing a 45-day comment period before being finalized, will require only that fabrics used in furniture resist a smolder test like that from a cigarette, and will not require that interior foams meet any test. Because furniture can be made to be less flammable through a good choice of fabric, this will allow better manufacturers to drop the use of chemicals altogether.

Because the California rule impacted the national market for furniture, this represents a tremendous step forward for public health. However, it is not a ban on the use of chemical flame retardants, so it does not mean that new furniture will necessarily lack flame retardants (FRs) — at least for a while. Consumers looking to buy new furniture should still ask whether the foam and fabric have been treated, because it takes time for manufacturers to alter their practices and research new foams and fabrics. (There’s a few sources here and here if you need ’em for FR-free furniture.)

But it’s great news! The Consumer Federation of America is organizing consumer letters for the comment period, here — you should go sign one to let regulators know that you also support flame retardant standards that do not require any chemicals.

Now for a less happy word on why, after my cheerily naive posts last week, it took me two days to catch up to Friday’s good news. I was slain by the Norovirus. And by slain, I mean decimated, flat out on the couch, unable to move. While Maya seemed a little under the weather late last week, I had no idea that her body was carrying a insidious viral passenger meant for me. On Sunday, I started to feel woozy, but by Sunday night, I was all chills and fever, in rapid cycling fashion.

On Monday morning, Maya woke me up at a brutally early 6:30 a.m., and I didn’t feel right. At all. In fact, my head was so wobbly on my shoulders that I worried that it would pop off and roll down the hallway like in that grisly scene from the first season of Louie. Maya pleaded with me to get up, so I struggled to my feet, making it only as far as the bathroom. I looked down at her, and she said, “Poopy.” Her diaper was straggling halfway down her leg, inside her pajamas.

I picked her up, got her up on the changing table atop the dresser, and then lost my grip on everything. It’s true what they say about the floor coming up to meet you. I fell backwards, and then passed out cold on the floor. I must have really gone down with a thud because my head hurt for two days despite the thick carpet.

When I came to (How could I have forgotten to put on my glasses?? Another bad sign.), I saw through the blur, and then remembered in real horror, that Maya was four feet off the ground. I struggled to stand up, which took a few tries, and then, in my addled state, somehow thought finishing her diaper and getting her pants on was the next relevant task. I got her dressed, and let her slide down to the floor along my body.

I was sweating like I had just finished a marathon (irony, pure irony), which the doctor later told me is a cortisol reaction to a blackout. I found the phone and discovered that my husband was still at the bus stop. He came right home, and we went to the hospital. After a battery of tests, they pronounced me flu-ridden, dehydrated and exhausted, with a soupcon of pink eye for good measure. They pumped me up with a drip and a pain reliever or two and sent me home with a scrip for the conjunctivitis.

Thus began my week from heck. Take it from me, the Norovirus is like a Dementor that saps your will to live. After laying both Maya and me out flat for several days, it lightened up a bit only to deliver a nasty set of secondary infections that required doctor’s visits and drugs. Then I had a very poor reaction to the (overly strong) antibiotic, and was kaputso for another two days.

We’ll just call it the Lost Week. Here are the questions I kept pondering in my still-queasy, half-alive state:

1) When you are sick and so is your kid, what in the samhey are you supposed to do? You can’t hand them off to someone else for fearing of giving another toddler the Bubonic, and you can’t really take care of them and get better yourself. After Monday, my husband had to go back to work and my mom (who did drive out to take care of Maya and stayed all day Monday) retired in fear of joining the germ-fest.

Then, it was just me and little Ms. Fellow Misery, and I’ll just say I did not love the company. I could not read to her, really, or play, and so the days were dreary, awful affairs. Needless to say, I violated every principle dear to me: we ordered (non-organic, and fairly gross) pizza; we watched a few videos. I couldn’t feed her or properly take care of me, I couldn’t see anyone or take her anywhere. It was isolating, and after the blackout, even a little scary.

2) How long will it be before Maya forgets what happened? Although I have never had this kind of fainting episode before, Maya keeps asking whether I will fall down, and before bed every night this week, has said she feels she is falling. She is also giving me lots of hugs and saying she wants to take care of me, which I have to admit is cuddlicious. Still, it’s clearly affected her. I know kids are resilient and all that, but it tears at my heart that I obviously scared her and seem less reliable in her eyes.

3) How can I prevent this from happening again? Everyone who has ever spent time alone with a child has feared a moment where they might be somehow, suddenly incapacitated. And this week, when it happened to me, it was just as terrifying as you think it might be. My resolution is to try to take better measure of my limits, and certainly (duh) never to put Maya in high places whenever I don’t feel well enough to stand.

But it goes deeper than that: before this happened, I don’t think I had really ever grappled before with this new responsibility to Maya that is really, first and foremost, about taking care of me. It’s like what they always tell us on planes: we have to get our own oxygen masks secure first.

We were lucky, and I am very grateful, but it could have been so much worse, as I shudder to think. Despite this awful, relentless illness, I think I found out the relatively easy way: when we don’t take good care of ourselves as parents, it’s our kids that could get hurt.