I’m staring at a bag of frozen peas like it’s a tiny green landmine. Twenty-seven grams of protein, sure, but what about the phytic acid? Will it bind to the zinc in the sweet potato puree I painstakingly mashed earlier? Will that tiny deficiency mean my kid struggles with fractions later? It’s 2:17 AM. My husband snores like a freight train next to me, oblivious. He just eats what’s put in front of him. God bless his simple metabolism. Remember how you feel after a double shift, feet throbbing, mind buzzing with inventory and customer complaints? That’s my brain now, all the time, but instead of inventory it’s micronutrients. Instead of customer complaints, it’s the spectral judgment of every parenting article I’ve ever skimmed. My phone is a glowing oracle of doom. One wrong move, one neglected vitamin, and I’ve stunted them. Permanently. It started small, you know? Just making sure we had enough kale. Then it was organic kale. Then it was local, organic, *pesticide-free* kale. The kind that costs an arm and a leg, the kind my mom would’ve laughed at and said, “Kale? What’s wrong with cabbage, éija?” But she didn’t know about the pesticides, did she? She just cooked what was cheap and filling. And we turned out fine, I guess. Mostly. But fine isn't enough, not for this little guy. I see his tiny hands grasping for my finger, his eyes, wide and trusting. And it’s like a switch flipped. Before, I was just trying to keep my head above water, working the two jobs, making rent. Eating ramen because it was fast and cheap. Whatever. Now, every single bite that goes into his mouth feels like a sacred offering, or a potential poison. I spend hours after he’s asleep, hunched over my laptop, the blue light making my eyes burn. Dr. Google is a merciless god. I’m cross-referencing studies from PubMed, reading forums where moms talk about ancestral diets and gluten sensitivities like they’re discussing the weather. I bought a food scale. A tiny, ridiculous food scale. I weigh his portions. I log everything. EVERYTHING. The other day, my sister-in-law brought over some store-bought baby food. A little jar of chicken and sweet potato. She meant well. She smiled, "Thought I'd save you some trouble, hon." And I just stared at it. My stomach dropped. I could practically see the chemical preservatives, the lack of XYZ nutrient, the HIGH SODIUM content. I smiled back, a little too wide, and said, "Oh, that's SO sweet, but we're on a very specific rotation right now, trying to introduce new textures, you know?" And then I quietly, guiltily, hid it in the back of the pantry until she left. Later, I threw it out. Felt like a CRIMINAL. My grocery budget is astronomical. We’re not rolling in dough, never have been. It’s always been a hustle. But now, it’s like every dollar has to be stretched not just to pay the bills, but to BUY THE RIGHT THING. The wild-caught salmon, not the farmed stuff. The grass-fed beef. The organic berries that cost eight bucks for a small carton. Sometimes I look at the receipt and just feel… numb. It’s either this, or my kid can’t focus in school. Or gets sick more often. Or has some undiagnosed deficit that I COULD HAVE PREVENTED. My hands shake a little when I chop vegetables. It's not cold. It's not fatigue. It's the pressure. The knife feels heavy. Each slice feels like I’m carving out his future, and one slip, one wrong ingredient, and it's all going to go sideways. I used to love cooking. It was a release. Now it's a high-stakes surgical procedure. He’s fine. He’s happy. He’s chunky and laughing and hitting all his milestones. But the thought, it’s always there, burrowed deep like a tick. What if I’m missing something? What if he’s happy *now*, but then, when he’s twenty, he’s got some obscure autoimmune disease because I didn’t give him enough… what? Choline? Selenium? I don't even know. And the thought just sits there, heavy and flat, like a stone in my gut. And I can’t make it move.