Dear Rachel, I’ve rewritten this note several times. Each version sounded either too alarmed or too cautious. Too much like a scientist. Or too much like a father worried about his grandson. I guess that is what happens when you spend thirty years studying how toxic chemicals affect children. Eventually the science stops feeling abstract. Lately I’ve been thinking about Freddy’s wheezing. Enough that I found myself hesitating when I saw food pouches and plastic containers stacked beside the sink, or when I smelled the plug-in air fresheners in your home. That hesitation is strange because the pouches and plug-ins are not marketed as dangerous. They are marketed as modern parenting: convenient, portable, nutritious, efficient. The language of care wrapped in soft plastic and scented air. And to be fair, some of these products probably do make life easier for exhausted parents trying to get through another long day with a toddler. I remember those years well—the interrupted sleep, the endless laundry, the feeling that simply getting everyone fed and safely to bed was an accomplishment. But over the years, researchers have learned that some chemicals used in plastics and food packaging can affect hormones, metabolism, fertility, immune systems, and even wheezing in children. I don’t know whether plastic exposure has anything to do with Freddy’s breathing. No honest scientist could say that. Wheezing can arise from viruses, allergies, air pollution, mold, plastics, or a combination of factors we do not yet fully understand. Still, I know that many environmental hazards become visible only decades after we normalize them. Lead paint once symbolized modern housing. Asbestos was called a miracle mineral. Cigarettes were advertised by physicians. Teflon pans promised effortless cooking and freedom from scrubbing. Again and again, products introduced as modern conveniences later revealed hidden costs. The pattern repeats often enough that it becomes difficult not to wonder what we are missing today. At first the products seem harmless, useful, even liberating. The harms emerge slowly, unevenly, quietly. That is partly why I wrote you this letter. Not because I want you to become fearful or obsessive. Parenting already asks too much of young families. I would never want you to feel that every meal container or snack pouch carries hidden danger. But I also know that little things matter. Glass instead of soft plastic when practical. More fresh food. Avoiding canned and packaged foods when there are good alternatives. Not because I want you to worry about every exposure, but because some risks are easy enough to avoid. What strikes me most—what makes me angry—is how unfair this burden has become. Parents are now expected to navigate a world saturated with poorly tested chemicals while also trying to raise healthy, joyful children. We have turned protection into a private responsibility, asking families to solve problems that should never have become theirs alone. So perhaps this letter isn’t only about plastics. Perhaps it is about the uneasy feeling many parents and grandparents share: that modern life has filled our homes with invisible uncertainties while asking us to behave as though they are normal. We should expect more from the agencies charged with protecting public health. We should expect chemicals to be tested before they become ubiquitous, not decades afterward. And we should be willing—as parents, grandparents, and citizens—to insist on those protections for the children who will inherit the world we leave behind. And if you want help finding alternatives, I’d be happy to help. Looking out for Freddy is one of the great joys of being his grandfather. But I also hope we reach a day when parents and grandparents no longer have to become amateur toxicologists just to raise healthy children. Maybe none of these changes will make a difference for Freddy. Maybe they will. The challenge is that we rarely get certainty. We make the best decisions we can with the information we have, guided by love and a desire to leave our children a healthier world than the one we inherited. That, more than anything, is why I finally decided to send this letter. Love, Dad This work exists because of readers like you. Paid subscriptions let me keep it independent, ad-free and unafraid to take on powerful interests. If you find value here, consider joining as a supporter—it makes all the difference.
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