Target excursions unfold in a remarkably predictable manner. Regardless of the season, my shopping list, or the number of children accompanying me—whether I have friends, family, or neighbors in tow—the routine remains the same. I always park close to the cart return to quickly confine the kids. The youngest, a toddler, leaps into the cart’s basket rather than the seat, while the older two, ages 5 and 6, cling to the sides as we traverse the parking lot, praying I don’t lose any of them.
The first demand? Starbucks.
I steadfastly refuse, earning the title of the “ultimate villain” in their eyes. This leads to a chorus of tears over their lack of soy milk steamers as they dramatically gesture toward the barista. I rush them past.
Next up is the Dollar Spot, a mandatory stop that invariably devolves into a “buy me toys now” standoff. I might grab some Ninja Turtle socks for the toddler—because one always vanishes—but chaos ensues as they fight over light-up skulls, sticker books, and glowing balls. I say no repeatedly until the toddler’s desire for stickers turns the scene into a full-blown negotiation over battery-powered fans and other impulse buys. The Dollar Spot is my nemesis.
In a feeble attempt at “me time,” I venture into the women’s clothing section. The toddler, unrestrained, makes a break for it, prompting his siblings to chase after him. I try to focus on the clothes, but the disapproving glares from older patrons and Target employees force me to corral the toddler back into the cart, where he begins to wail. Thanks for the judgment, everyone.
My oldest, ever the daredevil, attempts to lie under the moving cart. I intervene, warning him of the peril he faces, but he simply climbs out, only to try again at the first opportunity.
My makeup needs are dire. We make our way to the beauty aisle, where my sons enthusiastically suggest eyeshadow colors and beg for sparkly nail polish. When those requests are denied, they pivot to cotton balls, claiming they’re for crafts. I know better—they’ll just end up throwing them at each other like they’re snowballs. Q-Tips become the next unlikely item on their wish list.
As we pass the gummy vitamin aisle, the boys suddenly insist they need more. Despite having an ample supply at home, the toddler’s screams about vitamins escalate until we reach the juice aisle, where I relent and grab some juice boxes. I hand one to the toddler to quiet him, which, of course, means the older two get theirs too. My credit card better be ready for this shopping spree.
Next, we hit the seasonal section.
This is a must-see, unless, of course, it’s just the cheap stuff they stock between holidays. Garden gnomes? Halloween costumes? Christmas decorations? Easter goodies? All worthy of exploration, pleading, and the inevitable Charlie-Brown-like retreat when they can’t have what they want. Sometimes, I’ll even let them buy ornaments to keep the peace. No shame here.
After seasonal items, we dive into the toy aisle, specifically the Lego section. They bring up good deeds as leverage for a Matchbox car, while desperate pleas for Dinotrux lead to more disappointment. I find myself repeating, “You are not getting anything!” like a deranged anti-capitalist mantra. Eventually, I give in and sit on my phone while they spend what feels like an eternity considering various Lego kits and action figures. I don’t even look up from Facebook when I remind them to add their wishes to the Christmas list. They squeal in delight, and onlookers cast me sidelong glances, but I know where each child is at all times. I strategically park myself in the aisle with the best Wi-Fi.
Then comes the clearance section for kids.
They whine about wanting to check out the $5 junk toys across the aisle while I sift through discounted clothing. After just three minutes of their whining, my patience runs thin, and I relent. This leads to a battle over who’s getting what, culminating in tears from all three. Target, your layout is the real enemy.
Finally, it’s time to escape.
Somehow, amidst the chaos, I manage to gather everything I wanted, needed, or got pressured into buying. We make our way down the center aisle, leaving behind the $5 toys, with the wailing gradually morphing into sniffles. I quickly choose the shortest checkout line, which, of course, is the one manned by the oldest cashier. She’s seen it all. She knows the drill. I have approximately two minutes to get through the line, or someone’s going to completely lose it.
Predictably, the toddler erupts into a full-blown meltdown as we reach the cashier. Whether it’s because the cashier has to scan his toy, or simply because his brother breathed too close, he screams as if the world is ending. I’m at a loss, and my oldest, once again, decides to lie under the cart, now resting on top of the dog food. A stranger feels the need to point this out, as if I’m the most negligent parent on the planet. I fumble with my purse and manage to get my card into the chip reader. Thank you, little toddler Jesus, it works! We make a mad dash for the exit like we’re in a game show finale.
And just like that, they start clamoring for Starbucks again.
I refuse them yet again, leading to encore tears. The toddler, still crying, gets strapped into his car seat. They whine about their Matchbox cars or the dollar items, and I have to unwrap everything. I swear I won’t return to Target anytime soon. But two days later, you’ll find me back in those familiar aisles.
Because I need it. Because Target is my refuge.
For more insights on navigating the world of parenthood, check out our other posts, like this one on home insemination, or learn about fertility-boosting supplements that can help on your journey. Additionally, CCRM IVF offers excellent resources about pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, a trip to Target is an adventure filled with chaos, negotiations, and inevitable parental exhaustion. Yet, it remains a sanctuary, a place where amidst the madness, a mother finds solace—and perhaps a few items she never planned to buy.