Fast-forward to toddlerhood, and suddenly my worldly, curry-loving baby would only eat three things: buttered noodles (but only the right shape), chicken nuggets, and extremely expensive berries. Any attempt to deviate resulted in a hunger strike that could rival a political protest. It was soul-crushing. AND, did I mention expensive? At one point, I subscribed to one of those fancy pre-made meal services for toddlers. I was desperate. She ate exactly none of it. I cried. She asked for goldfish.

The swingset was no longer her world. It was a relic of a stage we had passed through, just like the play kitchen with its tiny plastic food, the beloved books now gathering dust, the clothes folded away in bins marked “baby,” even though there won’t be another baby to pass them down to. The passage of time doesn’t always announce itself with birthdays, holidays, or first days of school. Sometimes, it sneaks in through these small, quiet refusals. The “too littles” and the “I don’t want tos.”

I never set out to start a business. I just needed help. I was a new mom, a working professional, and—like so many others—completely overwhelmed. The systems that were supposed to support working parents didn’t. Traditional daycare didn’t fit my schedule. Coworking spaces weren’t built for people with babies in tow. And most of all, I was craving a sense of community—of not doing this alone.