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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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