Rhode Island Attorney General Patrick C. Lynch commands a presence, even in a showroom filled with other commanding personalities. He's direct, handsome, intelligent and very knowledgeable about the issues of dating violence. A committed activist against this violence, he backed the very first law in the United States, Lindsay's Law, mandating dating violence education for grades 7 through 12 in all Rhode Island schools.

"I met Ann Burke," he tells me right away as we share a table in the Liz Claiborne showroom, "and she's why I got involved. Rhode Island is one of the only states where the Attorney General also does all of the D.A. work. So I handle every crime that happens, assign a prosecutor and get the case started. Unfortunately, domestic violence is the crime we see the most often. When the Lindsay Burke case came through, it was particularly horrific." He doesn't elaborate on the details of Lindsay's brutal murder. He doesn't have to.

"I met Ann at the outset of the case and I told her not to expect closure, even with a conviction. Closure is pretty hard to come by for surviving family members. Most just try to live with the pain in whatever way they can. But some are able to actually rise out of it--out of their suffering--and ask what else can I do? Ann is one of those special people. She told me 'I want to do something. What should we do?' We looked at her family's background in education, at Lindsay's love of education, and it was clear what we needed to do."

"We're at a deficit of education in our schools in this country. I challenge anyone reading this--mom's especially--to look at your schools. Call them, ask them specifically if there is existing dating violence education programing in their curriculum. If the answer is no, challenge them to implement one."

"You know, I'm coming at this issue not just as an Attorney General, but also as a parent. This type of violence starts much younger than most of us realized. All the studies I've seen, studies by attorneys general, put the onset between ages 12 and 14. Our kids need to know what this is, they need to know that they're not alone and they need to know there are informed people they can talk to and trust. A coach, a teacher, a friend, a friend's parent--whomever. Because these days, with new technologies, texting and everything, your middle schooler can be sitting quietly next to you experiencing abuse in the form of excessive, invasive, bullying text messages and you could have no idea. And she might not know that it's not OK and that she can talk to you about it." As he talks, the Attorney General in him recedes a bit, and the concerned father comes to the fore.

"As an Attorney General, I see three ways to make a difference on this issue," he says. "In the courtroom, but that's after the fact. The scars are already there, the lives are lost and the Ann Burke's are already mourning their daughters. The second way to make a difference is through legislation. I can try to enact laws to protect women, to protect girls, to prevent more losses. But the third way to make a difference is the most important. It's education." He lets that sit as he looks over my shoulder out the window overlooking Times Square. "If we can reach all those people, if we can reach teens before the violence, if we can help them understand that it's wrong and that they don't have to endure it, then we're making a real difference. That's how we'll stop this violence."

I'm sitting down with Ann Burke, mother of Lindsay Burke, who was killed in 2005 by a jealous boyfriend when she was only 23 years old. Ann is an educator and an activist and wants all of us to get smart about the issues of dating violence. She's also the founding member of MADE.

"You know, I have Masters in Health Education. I've been teaching kids for years. Shouldn't I have known about this? I didn't even recognize the signs in the beginning with Lindsay. Some things made me uncomfortable, but I didn't really see it for what it was." When Ann speaks, the pain of her loss sits with her, she carries it. But it's clear that she uses it to fuel her work.

"I believe The time to learn about this is before our kids get involved in these relationships. We lull ourselves into complacency, thinking 'I'm a good parent, we have a good home, I know what my kids are doing,' and this thinking sets us up and sets up our kids for experiences they're not prepared to deal with."

"After Lindsay's murder, I spent a whole year researching this topic. I was blown away by the statistics, by the methods abusers use, by how much I didn't know. So when I went back to work in my 8th grade class and I was teaching them about HIV, STDs, drugs, alcohol, I started to think, 'Why isn't dating violence education mandated?'"


That's when Ann set to work to do something about it. She got involved with Rhode Island Attorney General Patrick Lynch's office and partnered with him on enacting legislation, which has since been passed. Lindsay's Law now mandates dating violence education in the State of Rhode Island from grades 7 through 12.


"Lindsay's Law got passed in 2007," she says. "Several other states are stating that they support mandated education but have yet to pass laws. There are currently about 8 states with some kind legislation. But a lot of states lack the funding to train the teachers. In Rhode Island, we didn't ask for any funding--we offered volunteer teacher training and materials, but we're a small state. For other states that approach might be harder. But I'm of the mind that if you wait for the money, the laws will never get passed. I'd rather force the issue and make the states come up with the funding. This issue is too important to wait."

At the end of our 15 or so minutes together, I ask Ann if her activism brings her any satisfaction.
I see the tears sneak up as she tells me, "It doesn't bring back Lindsay, but it does bring some satisfaction, yes. I think we've done a lot to honor her memory. After her murder, I thought long and hard about what she would want me to do. I tried my best to think, if she had survived the attack, what would she have wanted to do? She had a degree in education, so working toward education just made sense to me, not just for her memory, but for everybody else. If she had survived, Lindsay would have been talking about it. I have no doubt."

Today is national "It's Time to Talk" Day, started by the tireless activists at Liz Claiborne, Inc. What's it all about? (See my last blog for details.)

• Of the women between ages 15 and 19 murdered each year, 30% are killed by their husband or boyfriend.


• 1 in 3 teenagers report knowing a friend or peer who has been hit, punched, kicked, slapped, choked or physically hurt by their partner.


• More than 1 million women are stalked each year in the U.S.


• 56% of corporate leaders today say they are aware of employees within their organizations who are affected by violence against women.


• 54% of parents admit they have not spoken to their children about dating violence.

Well ladies, it's time to speak up.

I'll be blogging and tweeting live this morning from the Liz Claiborne showroom, in the middle of their "It's Time to Talk" day activities. Personalities, experts, advocates and survivors are all getting together on this issue today and raising their collective voices. Today is a day to move this issue out of the darkness and into the light.

What can you do? Well, you can:

Get educated.

Get involved.

Get help--for yourself or someone you know who needs it. (Teens can get help here.)

Blog, tweet, Facebook. Call your best friend. Talk to anyone and everyone who will listen today. Make it your problem. Please? Our kids are counting on us to try to sort some of this out, before they have to.

Suzy is talking about it.

Ann is talking about it.

Are you talking about it?

You’re a well-informed parent, committed to raising a healthy family. You read food labels, give your kids vitamins. You enforce bedtime, check homework. You’ve had—or are planning to have—conversations with your kids about the dangers of alcohol and tobacco use.

Three-and-a-half years ago, a miracle happened. Eight pounds and two ounces of happiness pushed, struggled and ultimately, joyfully, screamed her way into my life.

And since then, nothing has ever been the same.


For every single one of the 49 pounds I gained to give her life, I am grateful.

For every sleepless night, brought on by teething, illness or bad dreams, I am grateful.

For every day that begins before the dawn, I am grateful.

For every book read more than one dozen times, for every art project completed, for every Crayola design I have found on my furniture, I am grateful.

For every hug, every snuggle, every tantrum, every tear, I am grateful.

For every time I have held her sleeping body in my arms, I am deeply and humbly grateful.


Little One, you have taught me more about what it is to love than you will ever know. Your very existence--the fact that you are--has transformed my life in ways you'll likely never understand until your own pushing, screaming, living bundle of love comes to be.

It's you that I'm most grateful for, in every moment of every day. Thank you for being my child. Thank you, Sweet One, for being at all. By the very fact that you are, you have changed the world. And that is something for which to be abundantly, rejoicefully thankful.

OK, I haven't actually tried this recipe yet (but I will tomorrow morning, part of my contribution to the Little One's preschool Thanksgiving feast). I got it from a Mama friend who happens to be a culinary genius. Seriously. The stuff that comes out of this woman's kitchen is out of this world.


Mama Sarah's Mashed Potatoes

10 Yukon Gold Potatoes
1 8 oz package cream cheese
1 8 oz package sour cream
1 stick of butter
salt & pepper

Optional add ins:
fresh chives (1/4 cup, chopped)
garlic (3 to 6 cloves, mashed)
paprika (2 teaspoons)
grated cheddar cheese as a topping (the more the better)

Boil the potatoes whole, with the skins on, until soft. (Cutting the potatoes before boiling can make the finished dish a little watery.) Strain potatoes, let cool, cut into equal parts to make mashing easier.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl or pot, put potatoes, softened butter, cream cheese, sour cream (and any of the add ins you're using, except the cheddar cheese). Mash, mash, mash, skins on and everything. (Electric beaters work best, but take care not to over beat.) Salt & pepper to taste.

Spoon into a buttered baking dish (top with grated cheddar if you're using it) and bake for a half hour.

UPDATE: I made this dish tonight, in preparation for the Little One's preschool Thanksgiving feast tomorrow and I'm happy to report that it's divine! One word of warning, however, you'll need to get your fork into the sink right quick after tasting because if you don't, you'll be in danger of eating half the dish!

You've been warned.

Thousands of people waiting in line, just for a chance to get it. Grown women pushing children aside for a spot closer to the front of the pack. Doctors' offices, town health departments, schools--no one has it. And that makes the rest of us even more desperate to get it.

It reminds me of the Cabbage Patch Doll phenomenon of the 80s. I think my grandmother actually went to fisticuffs with another granny over my first Cabbage Patch Doll, Lucy Therese. (Yeah, I got the doll. Grandma won. I come from a long line of hearty, Eastern European Mamas.)

I managed to get the Little One vaccinated and today is the eve of her booster. A huge relief, to be sure. But my work is unfinished. After all, what good am I to her if I fall ill with this 21st century plague?

So I've been trying like hell to get the vaccine for myself. No mean feat these days, as many of you already know. I considered lying to my town health department when they were doing their clinics. I figured I could tell them I was pregnant. Or caring for an infant under the age of 6 months. Or both. (That lie, I figured, might garner me extra sympathy.) But I'm a terrible liar. Plus, it kind of felt like bad karma to lie about something so big.

So, instead, I've been carrying around a can of Lysol in my purse. (No, I'm not kidding.) I've been bathing in Purell. I've washed my hands raw.

Many of my friends are actually a little scared of me now.

Over these past weeks, I've married my anti-flu vigilance with a steely determination to find and procure a dose of this vaccine for myself through honorable means. And my efforts have finally paid off. I have an appointment this week to finally get the most coveted accessory of the season: The H1N1 Jab. And I'm proud to say that I didn't have to bop any grannies over the head to do it, either.

Avoiding the Swine Flu by vaccination: $30.
No longer spraying Lysol on the Metro-North train to NYC: Priceless.

Now, if I can just avoid catching it until Thursday...

What do you get when you throw together an auditorium full of preschoolers; some thoughtful, absurdly addictive original tunes; and minimally animated stories of a little yellow visitor from the sun?

You get one of those rare occurrences where you're actually having as much fun as your 3-year-old, even though you're doing the same thing. That's Gustafer Yellowgold.

Thanks to some seriously hip friends, the Little One and I were introduced over the weekend to Gustafer, and his frighteningly talented creator, Morgan Taylor. Taylor is the illustrator/singer/songwriter behind Gustafer Yellowgold. And despite the slightly silly premise, Morgan's music is anything but fluff.

There's no mistaking Taylor's musical aptitude or his flair for performance. In fact, it's impossible to listen to Gustafer's musical adventures without being reminded of another slightly silly musical quartet: The Beatles. (Who else but John, Paul, George and Ringo could have made a song about an Octopus's Garden sound so good?) Like the Beatles, Taylor brings a poetic sensibility to his music. And it's this poetry and intelligence that so much of today's children's music lacks.

Taylor's brainchild, Gustafer Yellowgold, and the accompanying musical, multi-media adventures are the thinking parent's dream. So, if you don't know Gustafer yet, you can meet him here. Listen to his music, read his story, or pick up a DVD. And don't forget to check out the concert schedule. Because, like all good music, Gustafer is best experienced live.

The elves are out in earnest now. (They have been since the day after Halloween.) And while I'm largely opposed to stretching the holiday season beyond its natural limits, for this particular gift item, I am happily making an exception.

Motherhood requires troubleshooting skills, on-the-job learning and some serious improv abilities. Every day offers new adventures and we Mamas must remain adaptable, if nothing else. There's no handbook for some of the stuff our Little Ones throw at us. I've compiled a little list of phrases I'd never have guessed would ever pass my lips, until I became a Mama:

Please get your face off the toilet seat.

Don't lick that.

No, you can't put your tutu on the dog.

Would you like it if someone stuck their finger up your nose?

If you don't go back to sleep, we'll never have fun again. Ever.

Get your hand out of your pants.

Get your hand out of my pants. (Full disclosure: I'm sure I said this at least a half a dozen times in college.)


And, finally,the mother of all Mama phrases. The one I swore I'd never utter:

Because I said so.

Sunny, sixty-something degree weather today lead quickly to a back yard romp in our leaf piles with the Little One. While rolling about on autumn's colorful carpet (and momentarily pushing the fear of ticks from my mind) I was intoxicated by the Little One's laughter. She was in a state of complete abandon, the kind of enthusiastic surrender that only children experience. (After all, three-year-olds have no idea about Lyme Disease. Why should they be worried?)

Lots of changes are afoot in our lives. Some weigh heavily upon me. Others offer hope: a thin, bright line on the horizon. For me, all change is unsettling. Such is the nature of change, I guess.

But her laughter--that full-bellied, joyful noise, utterly devoid of self-consciousness--was an affirmation. It sounded like a promise. It sounded like the future. Not in a trite way; the future always holds a balance of joy and suffering. But her euphoria echoing off our newly stripped Maples rang out like a shot--clear and strong. It's very utterance the proof of days to come.

It is that future--the uncertain one--that promises. The Great Wide Open is exhilarating and terrifying. And we all have moments in our lives when we're able to see it--and how much we're at its mercy. But if we turn the prism just so, we can see the rainbow.

Catching our breath and pulling golden Maple leaves from our hair, the Little One sat up and hugged me. It was one of those moments that's now burned forever in my memory, a snapshot of an emotion.

Then she said, "Do we have to put all these leaves back in the trees?"

I felt a stinging in the corners of my eyes and a smile erupt across my face. "Do you think we could?" I asked.

"If we could fly, we could," she said.

No sooner was Halloween in the coffin and buried than the stores began pumping the Christmas music in earnest. A quick trip to a kid's clothing store today made it clear what the next two months will bring: A Christmas cacophony, jingling it's way into our collective consciousness with a single, unified message. Buy, baby, buy.

Look. I love this time of year. I love Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. The leaves, the food, the parties, even the family. All of it makes for a festive, cozy end of the year.

But Frank Sinatra's "12 Days of Christmas" at 10 AM the morning after Halloween? I'd barely made it through my latte and I find myself contending with Old Blue Eyes and his extended family. It's not right.

We've all been battered by the economy over the last few years. Job losses, falling home values and vanishing 401ks have left us all a little spooked. The sum total of which amounts to people spending less. So, I get retailers encouraging us to look ahead to the inevitable season of buying giving, with the hope that we might loosen our purse strings sooner and more often.

But I swear, if I have to hear Band Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas" daily for the next two months, I'll be one wicked Grinch by December 25.

To whom do I address my appeal? The Chamber of Commerce? The Better Business Bureau? Eight tiny reindeer? Stop the madness! Christmas is two blessed months away! I promise I won't forget to gift my kiddo, my parents, my brother, my nephew, my hairdresser and my garbage men.

As for me, I can't think of a gift I'd appreciate more than allowing time to proceed along its own already absurdly rapid pace. Let's not fast forward our lives by foisting Frosty upon unsuspecting Mamas in early November.

Father Time doesn't need the help. He moves pretty fast as it is, for an old guy. I've got a three-year-old to prove it.

Today, after the Little One came home from preschool, we had a little exchange about the state of my vocal chords:

Little One: Talk normal, Mama.

Mama: (In a barely audible whisper, emphasising with hand gestures) I can't, love.

Little One: But you have to try. I don't think you're trying.

Mama: I am trying, sweet one. But I lost my voice.

A look of concern mixed with fear clouds her face. A look like: "Lost" her voice? I didn't know this was possible.

Little One: But where'd it go? Did you lose it? (Looks at Mama's pockets.)

Mama: (Nods)

Little One: Oh no. What happened? Did you swallow it?

Adventures in deductive reasoning, sponsored by my three-year-old.

I've lost my voice.

See, I've got kind of a nasty cough (no fever, so no aporkalyptic swine flu fears) and it seems to have robbed me of speech, or at least of vocalization. At first blush, it's not the end of the world, right?

But consider A Day in the Life of a Mama:

• I need to write out my Starbucks order before getting online. Dunkin' Donuts drive through isn't even a possibility.

• When the Little One takes off running toward the supermarket parking lot, I open my mouth to yell "Stop!" But what comes out is...nothing. Fortunately, she's as well trained as any Pavlovian canine and so came to a screeching and immediate halt once at the curb.

• The Little One is on her 6th tantrum of the afternoon. I need to call another Mama to vent, but am reduced to texting, which is, of course, not the same thing.

• Bedtime turns into a nightmare when Mama can't read even one of the six books requested. Compromise prevails, though, when we silently agree to look at them together.

Any good home remedies to bring my voice back? I'm not psychic, but I foresee tantrums and storybooks in my near future.

So I'm watching game three of the ALCS tonight. I'm an unabashed Yankees fan, as anyone who knows me will tell you. (Stay with me West Coast readers.) I was dazzled by the magic that closer Mariano Rivera worked as only he can. The man's arm is graced with some serious positive juju, the likes of which I've never seen in my life as a baseball fan.

After Mariano got himself, and my boys in blue, out of what could be generously called a serious jam, I kind of relaxed. Mo took control, shut down the threat; it should have been smooth sailing from there.

Here's where the Mama stuff comes in.

After Mo's miracle working, the Yankees failed to deliver a run. So the team, while momentarily out of the woods, still had some work to do.

Enter Joe Girardi, Yankees Manager. A baseball manager is, in many ways, just like a Mama. A manager wants his team to thrive, to succeed, to prosper, just the same as any Mama wants for her family. A manager knows his team, inside and out, the way a Mama knows her family. A manager makes decisions--both popular and less so--based on what he feels is best for his team, just the way we Mamas do. (Think enforcing bedtime and candy rationing.)

Well, tonight, Joe Girardi made some decisions in the 11th inning that I will go to my grave without understanding. He replaced Rivera with Robertson, a young right-hander who performed, for the precious few pitches he threw, admirably. Then, in a mid-inning move that confounded many a fan and--in my mind at least--lost the game for the Yankees, Girardi pulled Robertson for another right-hander, Aceves, a pitcher who has struggled some in recent games.

Why?

Here, Mamas, is the crux of this post: Because Girardi thought he was making the best choice he could make in a tough situation. The game was tied in the 11th inning and he had already used his ace. What next?

See, Mamahood and baseball have a lot in common. As Mamas, we're thrown curve balls almost every day of the week. (At least baseball players get off days!) We're operating in the moment, with outside forces vying for power. (Think MTV, Toys 'R Us and Mean Girls.) We try to anticipate and cut off danger before it even crosses the plate.

But sometimes, in the thick of it, as we formulate our permutations of every conceivable outcome for a given situation, we over think things. Sometimes, in an effort to save, we end up doing some collateral damage.

So Joe Girardi, if you're reading this, let me first tell you that I'm a big fan. But let me also give you some advice, one Mama to another: Sometimes we need to give our kids a chance to fall, before we try to save them from doing so. They'll learn some lessons in the process, to be sure. And the landing might not be nearly so bad as we anticipate.

As for the rest of us Major League Mamas, let game three of this ALCS serve as a reminder not to judge. When you see that Mama at the supermarket with the wild child, check yourself before you let those holier-than-thou thoughts fly: You don't know what she's faced that day or what kind of curve balls she's been thrown. She might have just moved her world through a potential shitstorm with no casualties and could, at that moment, be in need of a solid reliever to carry her through. Whatever her story, she's probably doing the best she can at that moment, just like good old Girardi.

But next time, Joe, if you've got a good thing going? Do me a favor. Let it ride.

I've been moonlighting, Mamas.

I know, I know, I probably should have told you sooner. And I love this little blog of mine, don't get me wrong. But another master has been vying for my focus and devotion. So I feel like it's finally time I told you...

We just launched a magazine!

By we, I mean the dedicated, driven and fearless team at the Joyful Heart Foundation, founded by Mariska Hargitay to heal, educate and empower survivors of sexual assault, domestic violence and child abuse and shed light into the darkness that surrounds these issues.

It's a bold mission that Joyful Heart pursues. Reunion, the magazine, is the latest addition to their impressive agenda. Intended to connect and expand the Joyful Heart community, Reunion also turns up the volume on these issues of abuse for the community as a whole by: "helping survivors and practitioners heal from trauma with thoughtful self-care; educating our supporters and partners about issues important to our cause; and empowering the wider community with ways to work together to help end the cycle of violence and abuse."

As the Editorial Director of this ground-breaking publication, I joyfully introduce you to Reunion. Read it online or sign up for a subscription to the print publication. Embrace the hope and healing it promotes. And, most importantly, talk about it. Talk to your friends, your family, your hairdresser, your school principal. Make these issues of violence against women and children your issues. Together, with voices raised, we will be heard.

Read more about the healing work of Joyful Heart here.

I blog pretty often about my own insecurities as a mom, the heavy load of guilt I carry that I'm screwing up my kid, and my efforts to overcome this destructive cycle of self-recrimination.

Recently, some profound--and profoundly simple--words of encouragement popped up in my inbox, emailed by another Mama, of course. It was the text of an article by Elaine Heffner, CSW, Ed.D., entitled "The Good Enough Mother." It's wise and witty and just about every Mama I know will relate to it. We can't be perfect mothers, Heffner insists, so we need to stop trying and give ourselves a break. We need to be, she says, "good enough" mothers. And a "good enough" mother, in Heffner's estimation:

• loves her child but not all of his behavior.
• isn't always available to her child whenever he wants her.
• can't possibly prevent all her child's frustrations and moods.
• has needs of her own which may conflict with those of her child.
• loses it sometimes.
• is human and makes mistakes.
• learns from her mistakes.
• uses her own best judgment.

It feels nice to be reminded that you're doing a good job, doesn't it? And we are, Mamas. We are.

We've got baking on the brain today. And we're all set to run to the supermarket to pick up a few ingredients for this, the moistest and most fantastic spiced pumpkin bread recipe around. But before we run out the door, I thought I'd share my recipe with you.

Mama's Magnificent Pumpkin Bread

4 eggs
1 (15 ounce) can pumpkin puree
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup vegetable oil
2/3 cup applesauce (unsweetened)
1 cup brown sugar, packed
2 cups white sugar
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1 cup chopped walnuts or raisins (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease and flour 3 loaf pans (7x3).

2. In a large bowl, mix together eggs, pumpkin, butter, oil, water, sugar until blended. In separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger. Blend the dry ingredients into the wet mixture, then pour batter into prepped pans.

3. Bake for 60 to 70 minutes. (Loaves are cooked when you insert a toothpick in the center and it comes out clean.)

"Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,

Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."

The creeptastic Halloween season is upon us and my little ghoul and I have already begun our Halloween crafting. We've been hard at work making our own Halloween greeting cards with construction paper and glue sticks (her favorite).

I've been sneaking around, looking for other spooktacular low or no cost crafts to do with her. Here's some fun and easy ideas I've been able to scare up.

This handprint spider is perfect for preschoolers and their mummies. If you need the directions, they're over at Amazing Moms.

Recycle your milk jugs and create a spooky lighted walkway outside your house. Details are over at Disney's Family Fun site.

It's scary how many old t-shirts most of us have lying around. Why not repurpose one into this cute little ghost door hanger? Kaboose has all the details.

And while you're busy making all these tricks, why not give your little monsters a real treat. Chow has the skinny on these "Tricked Out" Caramel Apples. Scary good!

Want more ideas? I found some good ones last year, too.

This week marks the much anticipated first deliveries of the H1N1 (Swine Flu) vaccine to doctors' offices, health clinics and school districts around the country. But do you have the facts? Should you get the vaccine? If you want it, where can you get it? What if you're pregnant? Should you vaccinate your kids? Is the darn thing safe?

As usual, NPR has a done a terrific job answering the important questions on a major issue. See, they've got a woman on the inside. Journalist Joanne Silberner reports from a front row seat at the CDC's (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention) Emergency Operations Center, a place where the nation's top health officials monitor all major public health situations, including continued H1N1 outbreaks and the vaccine response. You can listen to the full report here.

Additionally, NPR.org posts listener questions and the expert responses. ("[T]ake the flu vaccine," Dr. Frank Witter, a specialist in maternal-fetal medicine at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, tells pregnant women.)

It's a great place to start your research and make your decisions regarding H1N1, the vaccine and your family.

Additional resources:

CDC H1N1 page

AAP (American Academy of Pediatrics) H1N1 info

WHO (World Health Organization) H1N1 response