Snack duty at my child's preschool nearly broke me. Then I decided to stop caring about kale chips.
It was my turn to bring snacks for the preschool class and I was panicked at the grocery store.
I sent in bananas and chips for each child. It seems the teachers thought I chose poorly.
Since then, I've learned to stop chasing gold stars.
I used to think snack duty was no big deal, just another harmless checkbox on the endless preschool to-do list. But that illusion evaporated the week I found myself standing in a grocery store aisle, gripped by analysis paralysis in front of the granola bars.
Was peanut butter too risky? Were raisins still a choking hazard for this age group? Did natural flavors count as artificial? What even was a healthy snack in 2025?
My panic in the grocery store aisle over preschool snacks may seem extreme, but wrong choices can be made. I know, because mine apparently was.
Like every other family, all I had to do was bring something for my daughter's preschool class, something for them to munch on with their lunch. That was it. But somehow, this ordinary task spiraled into what felt like a near panic attack fueled by the Instagram-perfect lunchboxes we've all seen and the unspoken judgment of other moms that many of us worry about.
I considered homemade oat bites (gluten-free, of course), organic fruit skewers arranged in rainbow order, maybe even hummus in tiny compostable cups. But my energy gave out long before my insecurity did. So I grabbed what felt like a compromise: a bunch of bananas and a small bag of Cheetos for them to share.
When I picked my daughter up that afternoon, I spotted the whiteboard by the door. In friendly purple marker, it read: "Please remember to prioritize healthy snacks (we are a kale chip-friendly classroom)."
It wasn't addressed to me. But I knew. I knew.
I felt my face flush. Suddenly I could see all the invisible lines I had crossed: processed, salty, non-organic. The shame settled in fast, a sticky mix of guilt and embarrassment I couldn't quite shake. I started imagining the other parents exchanging side-eyes at pickup, whispering about the mom who brought Cheetos.
It seems absurd now, but in the moment, what I was feeling wasn't just about snacks. It was about fitting into a parenting culture that feels like a never-ending audition for "Best Mom." Where even a plastic bag of cheese puffs can turn into a referendum on your values, your choices, your identity.
I soon realized I'd internalized this weird, unspoken competition. The snacks weren't just food; they were social currency. A well-curated bento box signaled care, time, thoughtfulness. Convenience snacks whispered neglect. Never mind that we're all just trying to survive the week with some combination of work, childcare, dishes, and sleep deprivation.
That's when it hit me: I was contorting myself to meet standards no one fully agreed on. No one had sent out a definitive snack rubric. But somehow, I was acting like there was a parenting test I had to ace or risk failing my daughter in front of an audience.
This isn't an anti-health food rant. I like a good chia pudding as much as the next parent. But I've come to reject the pressure to perform through nutrition as a signal of virtue. Parenting already demands so much of us emotionally, physically, and mentally. Adding a layer of performative wellness culture doesn't help anyone, it just breeds burnout.
The next time snack duty rolled around for our family, I sent in pretzels and applesauce pouches. Nothing fancy, nothing homemade. I didn't spiral, I didn't apologize. I remembered what mattered: my daughter was fed, she was happy, and no one was keeling over from the lack of kale.
Snack duty taught me something bigger: that letting go of other people's expectations can be a radical act of parenting. It's okay to not care about kale chips. It's okay to show up with Cheetos and a banana and still believe you're doing a great job. Because you are.
I've stopped chasing gold stars. My daughter doesn't need a perfect mom. She needs a present one. And sometimes, that means choosing joy and simplicity over guilt and optics.
Read the original article on Business Insider
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4 days ago
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Snack duty at my child's preschool nearly broke me. Then I decided to stop caring about kale chips.
It was my turn to bring snacks for the preschool class and I was panicked at the grocery store. I sent in bananas and chips for each child. It seems the teachers thought I chose poorly. Since then, I've learned to stop chasing gold stars. I used to think snack duty was no big deal, just another harmless checkbox on the endless preschool to-do list. But that illusion evaporated the week I found myself standing in a grocery store aisle, gripped by analysis paralysis in front of the granola bars. Was peanut butter too risky? Were raisins still a choking hazard for this age group? Did natural flavors count as artificial? What even was a healthy snack in 2025? My panic in the grocery store aisle over preschool snacks may seem extreme, but wrong choices can be made. I know, because mine apparently was. Like every other family, all I had to do was bring something for my daughter's preschool class, something for them to munch on with their lunch. That was it. But somehow, this ordinary task spiraled into what felt like a near panic attack fueled by the Instagram-perfect lunchboxes we've all seen and the unspoken judgment of other moms that many of us worry about. I considered homemade oat bites (gluten-free, of course), organic fruit skewers arranged in rainbow order, maybe even hummus in tiny compostable cups. But my energy gave out long before my insecurity did. So I grabbed what felt like a compromise: a bunch of bananas and a small bag of Cheetos for them to share. When I picked my daughter up that afternoon, I spotted the whiteboard by the door. In friendly purple marker, it read: "Please remember to prioritize healthy snacks (we are a kale chip-friendly classroom)." It wasn't addressed to me. But I knew. I knew. I felt my face flush. Suddenly I could see all the invisible lines I had crossed: processed, salty, non-organic. The shame settled in fast, a sticky mix of guilt and embarrassment I couldn't quite shake. I started imagining the other parents exchanging side-eyes at pickup, whispering about the mom who brought Cheetos. It seems absurd now, but in the moment, what I was feeling wasn't just about snacks. It was about fitting into a parenting culture that feels like a never-ending audition for "Best Mom." Where even a plastic bag of cheese puffs can turn into a referendum on your values, your choices, your identity. I soon realized I'd internalized this weird, unspoken competition. The snacks weren't just food; they were social currency. A well-curated bento box signaled care, time, thoughtfulness. Convenience snacks whispered neglect. Never mind that we're all just trying to survive the week with some combination of work, childcare, dishes, and sleep deprivation. That's when it hit me: I was contorting myself to meet standards no one fully agreed on. No one had sent out a definitive snack rubric. But somehow, I was acting like there was a parenting test I had to ace or risk failing my daughter in front of an audience. This isn't an anti-health food rant. I like a good chia pudding as much as the next parent. But I've come to reject the pressure to perform through nutrition as a signal of virtue. Parenting already demands so much of us emotionally, physically, and mentally. Adding a layer of performative wellness culture doesn't help anyone, it just breeds burnout. The next time snack duty rolled around for our family, I sent in pretzels and applesauce pouches. Nothing fancy, nothing homemade. I didn't spiral, I didn't apologize. I remembered what mattered: my daughter was fed, she was happy, and no one was keeling over from the lack of kale. Snack duty taught me something bigger: that letting go of other people's expectations can be a radical act of parenting. It's okay to not care about kale chips. It's okay to show up with Cheetos and a banana and still believe you're doing a great job. Because you are. I've stopped chasing gold stars. My daughter doesn't need a perfect mom. She needs a present one. And sometimes, that means choosing joy and simplicity over guilt and optics. Read the original article on Business Insider
Business Insider
4 days ago
- Business Insider
Snack duty at my child's preschool nearly broke me. Then I decided to stop caring about kale chips.
I used to think snack duty was no big deal, just another harmless checkbox on the endless preschool to-do list. But that illusion evaporated the week I found myself standing in a grocery store aisle, gripped by analysis paralysis in front of the granola bars. Was peanut butter too risky? Were raisins still a choking hazard for this age group? Did natural flavors count as artificial? What even was a healthy snack in 2025? My panic in the grocery store aisle over preschool snacks may seem extreme, but wrong choices can be made. I know, because mine apparently was. Snack duty can bring on the pressure Like every other family, all I had to do was bring something for my daughter's preschool class, something for them to munch on with their lunch. That was it. But somehow, this ordinary task spiraled into what felt like a near panic attack fueled by the Instagram-perfect lunchboxes we've all seen and the unspoken judgment of other moms that many of us worry about. I considered homemade oat bites (gluten-free, of course), organic fruit skewers arranged in rainbow order, maybe even hummus in tiny compostable cups. But my energy gave out long before my insecurity did. So I grabbed what felt like a compromise: a bunch of bananas and a small bag of Cheetos for them to share. I got a passive-aggressive message at pickup When I picked my daughter up that afternoon, I spotted the whiteboard by the door. In friendly purple marker, it read: "Please remember to prioritize healthy snacks (we are a kale chip-friendly classroom)." It wasn't addressed to me. But I knew. I knew. I felt my face flush. Suddenly I could see all the invisible lines I had crossed: processed, salty, non-organic. The shame settled in fast, a sticky mix of guilt and embarrassment I couldn't quite shake. I started imagining the other parents exchanging side-eyes at pickup, whispering about the mom who brought Cheetos. This was about more than snacks It seems absurd now, but in the moment, what I was feeling wasn't just about snacks. It was about fitting into a parenting culture that feels like a never-ending audition for "Best Mom." Where even a plastic bag of cheese puffs can turn into a referendum on your values, your choices, your identity. I soon realized I'd internalized this weird, unspoken competition. The snacks weren't just food; they were social currency. A well-curated bento box signaled care, time, thoughtfulness. Convenience snacks whispered neglect. Never mind that we're all just trying to survive the week with some combination of work, childcare, dishes, and sleep deprivation. That's when it hit me: I was contorting myself to meet standards no one fully agreed on. No one had sent out a definitive snack rubric. But somehow, I was acting like there was a parenting test I had to ace or risk failing my daughter in front of an audience. I'd had enough This isn't an anti-health food rant. I like a good chia pudding as much as the next parent. But I've come to reject the pressure to perform through nutrition as a signal of virtue. Parenting already demands so much of us emotionally, physically, and mentally. Adding a layer of performative wellness culture doesn't help anyone, it just breeds burnout. The next time snack duty rolled around for our family, I sent in pretzels and applesauce pouches. Nothing fancy, nothing homemade. I didn't spiral, I didn't apologize. I remembered what mattered: my daughter was fed, she was happy, and no one was keeling over from the lack of kale. Snack duty taught me something bigger: that letting go of other people's expectations can be a radical act of parenting. It's okay to not care about kale chips. It's okay to show up with Cheetos and a banana and still believe you're doing a great job. Because you are. I've stopped chasing gold stars. My daughter doesn't need a perfect mom. She needs a present one. And sometimes, that means choosing joy and simplicity over guilt and optics.
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Eye for the outcome
The Cannes Lions International Festival of Creativity acknowledges creative work across various award levels, including silvers and bronzes, in addition to Grand Prix winners. As part of ' BE Extraordinary ,' a series with Harsh Kapadía, CCO, Grey India , we examine campaigns notable for their execution and outcomes. This segment focuses on the Creative Business Transformation category, presenting initiatives where creativity contributed to significant changes in business models, operations, or market presence, resulting in measurable effects for brands. Cars to Work - Renault, Publicis Conseil Renault, in collaboration with Publicis Conseil, executed a comprehensive, long-term strategy that exemplifies "Creative Business Transformation." Facing a significant loss of traditional market share and encountering public resistance towards electric vehicles, Renault made a strategic decision to fundamentally shift its primary focus towards electric car production. Prior to the mass launch of its new electric car models, Renault undertook various strategic initiatives designed to build market momentum and cultivate a strong public association with electric vehicles. These included the establishment of widely accessible charging stations, a move aimed at alleviating range anxiety and infrastructure concerns. They also proactively shared comprehensive crash test data for electric cars, addressing safety perceptions and building consumer confidence. Furthermore, Renault actively participated in developing fully electric urban zones, demonstrating the practical application and benefits of electric mobility in real-world environments. This comprehensive and integrated approach aimed to effectively position Renault as a pioneer and a leader in the electric mobility sector, systematically preparing the market for their upcoming vehicle rollout, and fundamentally transforming public perception of the brand's profound commitment to electric technology. The Other Hand - Cheetos / Frito-Lay, Goodby Silverstein and Partners The campaign titled "The Other Hand," developed by Frito-Lay in collaboration with Goodby Silverstein and Partners, represents a key component of a broader, multi-year creative business transformation strategy for Cheetos. This initiative ingeniously re-positioned a commonly perceived drawback of eating Cheetos — the distinctive orange, cheesy residue left on fingers, officially termed " Cheetle " — into a central and celebrated brand asset. Instead of attempting to eliminate this characteristic, which might have been viewed as messy by some consumers, Cheetos strategically embraced and highlighted it as an integral and unique part of the product experience. Their sustained approach involved officially naming this orange powder "Cheetle" to give it a recognised identity. "The Other Hand" and subsequent campaigns humorously illustrated various scenarios where having "Cheetle-covered fingers" could be advantageous, such as providing a convenient excuse to avoid undesirable tasks by relying on the clean "other hand." Another facet explored how the very concept of "hands-free" technology was playfully presented as being inspired by the need to avoid getting Cheetle on things. This consistent and creative strategy successfully shifted a potential negative perception into a highly positive and distinctive brand identifier, significantly contributing to consistent brand growth and fundamentally transforming how this unique product trait was perceived by consumers. (At BE Extraordinary, a series about the winners at Cannes Lions in collaboration with Harsh Kapadia, CCO, Grey India, we peer outside the Grand Prix, and look at clutter breaking work that picked the silvers and the bronzes, but don't often get discussed.)
