The bottle is cool in my hand. Heavier than it should be, like they’ve put weights in the bottom to make the $49 price tag feel earned. ‘Baby’s First Finishing Serum.’ I read the words three times. A phone call at 5 AM from a wrong number has a way of making the whole world feel like it’s written in a language you almost understand. Finishing. What is he finishing? His nap? The 9 blueberries I gave him for a snack? The packaging is a soft, matte beige, the color of influencer living rooms and expensive sand. It promises to ‘lock in foundational moisture’ and protect his delicate microbiome from ‘environmental aggressors.’

I’m standing in aisle 9. The air smells like plastic, powder, and parental anxiety. To my left, a ‘toddler clarifying toner’ with willow bark. To my right, a ‘pro-collagen sleep mask’ for ages two and up. My son is not yet two. He currently has yogurt in his hair. His primary environmental aggressor is the cat, who keeps trying to steal his toast. Yet for a split second, a weird, sleep-deprived part of my brain thinks, ‘Is his moisture foundational enough?’

I remember my first driving instructor, Cora M. She was a woman with exactly zero patience for nonsense. On my first lesson, I spent a solid minute trying to adjust the radio, the air conditioning, the seat angle. She just sat there, silent. When I was done, she tapped the steering wheel.

For the next six months, she preached a gospel of simplicity. Check your mirrors. Feel the clutch. Look further down the road than you think you need to. Everything else was a distraction. The car could have 239 horsepower or 99; it didn’t matter if you weren’t watching the road.

We are all trying to adjust the radio while a toddler drives our car.

This aisle, this entire industry, is the noise. It’s the satellite navigation system screaming at you to take a U-turn while you’re trying to merge onto the motorway. It’s the promise that if you just buy the right thing, you can outsource the hard parts of parenting: the uncertainty, the worry, the feeling that you have no idea what you’re doing. This serum won’t teach my son kindness. This toner won’t make him feel safe. This $979 ‘Newborn Wellness Welcome Home’ bundle I saw online, complete with infant aromatherapy diffuser and bamboo swaddle thread-count guide, will not build a secure attachment.

I am not immune to this. I once bought something called ‘toddler shaping gel’ because his hair has a stubborn cowlick. I used it once. It made his fine, soft hair look like a tiny, crunchy helmet. I was so embarrassed, I hid the tube in the back of a drawer, a little monument to my own insecurity. I fell for it. I criticized the game and then paid to play anyway. The industry knows this. It preys on the part of us that whispers, late at night, that maybe we’re not enough. Maybe our touch, our songs, our silly faces need to be supplemented by a product with 9 active ingredients and a celebrity endorsement.

And that the solution, conveniently, costs $49 plus shipping. The wellness industry has simply opened a new franchise in the most lucrative territory of all: our love for our children.

They just need to be held. They need to be warm. They need to be allowed to get dirty in clothes that can handle it, that are soft and simple and don’t have a 19-step washing instruction manual. They need the basics done well. Things like comfortable Kids Clothing NZ that let them move and feel like themselves, not tiny mannequins in a store window.

The plan for raising a child can’t be bought in an aisle. It’s simpler. Love them. Feed them. Keep them safe. The rest is just noise. It’s the distracting hum of the air conditioning when you should be watching the road.

I slide the box back onto the shelf. It clicks softly into place between the toner and the night cream. There are 19 other options just like it. I don’t look at any of them. I turn and walk out of the aisle. The automatic doors slide open, and the evening air is a relief. I get in my car, and for a few minutes, I don’t start the engine or turn on the radio. I just sit in the quiet, watching the sky change color. There are no decisions to make. I’m just going home.