23.04.25

Last night, she ate nothing.

I mean literally nothing.
One lick of mashed spinach, some banana squeezed in her fist, and then the full theatrical “I want out of this chair” performance. And there I was, spoon in hand, like I was competing on a cooking show judged by a toddler in pyjamas who rejects everything but air.

And I know, I know kids don’t always eat the way you hope they will. There are days when it works. And days when you’re left staring at a full plate.
But still, the thought creeps in every time: Did she eat enough? Is she getting what she needs?

And there it was again: magnesium. A few years ago, I would've just skimmed past that word.
Too complex. Too vague. Too far from my reality.
Until my nights were filled with a child who just wouldn’t settle. And suddenly, it became relevant.

Because magnesium, I learned, isn’t just a mineral.
It’s a quiet regulator. It supports calm. Sleep. Growth. Recovery. Energy. Basically everything you hope your child has, or that you’re desperately lacking yourself.

So I started digging: how do you even get enough of it?
And that brought me to the next confrontation: food. In theory, magnesium is found in lots of things.
Leafy greens. Nuts. Oats. Bananas. Seeds. And yes, dark chocolate.

Beautiful, on paper.
In real life? My kid lives off bread, apples, and who-knows-what-else-she-finds-to-snack.

And then you find out: even that “good” food has less magnesium than it used to.
Our soils are depleted. Crops grow faster, but carry less.
Even when you try your best, it's often still not enough. So it had to be simpler.
Softer.
Something that didn’t depend on “good days” or a cleaned plate.

I found out about magnesium through the skin.
No spoon. No taste. No drama.
Just: a few sprays on her little feet. A quick massage. Then story time.

That one small ritual I can count on, even when everything else feels out of control.

It’s small.

But what it brings is big.
Calm. Rhythm.
Something tangible that supports relaxation, not just for her, but for me too.

Because when you’ve been counting sleep in broken 43-minute chunks for months, any nudge toward rest is something to treasure.

That’s how gentlee was born.
Not from a brilliant idea or a shiny plan.
But from exhaustion. Love. And the need for something that works, without turning into a battle.
Something you give with a soft hand. Like pulling up the covers. Or quietly saying, “I’m here.”

So no, she didn’t eat her greens last night.
And I didn’t beat myself up about it. Because now I know: it doesn’t have to be perfect.
There are other ways to care for her. And sometimes, it’s just two sprays on tiny feet.

And then we sleep better. All of us.

With gentleness, Emilie