I built this because I needed it myself.

My son was eleven days old the first time I stood in a store aisle and felt genuinely useless.

I had a bottle of baby wash in one hand and my phone in the other, trying to read six-point-font ingredients while he cried loud enough that a stranger gave me a sympathetic look. I couldn't find "fragrance" anywhere on the label — good news, except I also couldn't tell what half the other words meant, or if they mattered for a newborn, and I had about ninety seconds before his crying got serious. I put the wash back and grabbed the one I recognized from a commercial instead. Twenty minutes of trying to be careful, undone by better marketing.

That kept happening, quietly, in a hundred small decisions a week. The one that actually stuck: a stacking toy I'd bought without a second thought, bright colors, looked ordinary. Weeks later I saw a recall notice for it on a parenting forum — a magnet component, exactly the kind of thing that never makes the news but should've reached me. He was fine. But I remember sitting on his floor that night, toy in hand, running through everything else in his room I'd bought the same trusting, uninformed way, and feeling something close to panic that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with how much I didn't know I didn't know.

I'm a software engineer. And there's a specific restlessness that hits when you're good at solving a certain shape of problem and keep running into a version of it with no solution in sight. Late one night, laptop open, baby finally asleep, I went looking for an app that would just tell me — is this safe for my kid, yes or no. What I found instead were tools that covered one narrow category, or worse, made you pay a subscription to see the answer they were built to give. That second part is what actually made me angry.

So I started building. Slowly, badly at first, mostly after 10 PM in the fog of new-parent exhaustion. Rambo is what came out of it: scan a barcode, get a straight answer — matched to your specific kid, not a generic "baby." Toys get checked the same way food does, which still isn't standard. And the answer is never something you pay to see. That's not a polished business decision. It's the one thing I refused to compromise on, because I remember exactly what it felt like to need an answer and get a paywall instead.

He's older now, into everything, opinionated about which spoon is acceptable. The overwhelm hasn't gone away — it just moves into new categories I don't know yet. But I'm not doing the math alone in a kitchen at 2 AM anymore.

If there's one thing I'd want another new parent to take from this: not knowing isn't a personal failing. Nobody hands you a manual. You're allowed to want a straight answer — I just got tired of waiting for someone else to build it.