Target trips have a predictable rhythm, regardless of the season, my shopping list, and the number of kids I bring along. I always park near the cart return, ensuring I can quickly confine my children into a cart. The youngest dives into the basket, while the 5-year-old and 6-year-old cling to the edges. I navigate the parking lot, praying not to lose anyone.
The First Demand? Starbucks.
I stand firm, embracing my role as the villain of the day. This leads to wails over their lack of soy milk steamers, as they mope and gesture dramatically at the barista. I hurry them along.
Next Up, It’s the Dollar Spot.
This is a mandatory stop, even though I rarely end up buying anything. The toddler wants Ninja Turtle socks, and soon enough, the older boys are clamoring for light-up skulls, sticker books, and various overpriced trinkets. I hold my ground, but the toddler’s persistent pleas for stickers draw me back in. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by battery-operated fans and other impulse buys. I really despise the dollar section.
In a Desperate Attempt for “Me Time,” I Venture into the Women’s Clothing Aisle.
The toddler escapes my grasp and takes off running, prompting a chaotic chase by his siblings. As I try to focus on clothes, I notice the glares from older shoppers and staff, so I corral the toddler back into the cart, where he protests loudly. Take that, Judgmental Judy.
My Oldest Child Tries to Lounge Under the Moving Cart.
I warn him about the potential danger, but he’s undeterred and soon attempts to crawl back under again.
Makeup is a Must-Have on My List, So We Head to That Section.
My boys start suggesting eyeshadows and beg for sparkly nail polish. When I deny their requests, they pivot to cotton balls, insisting they’re for crafts but I know better—they’ll just end up throwing them at each other. Q-Tips become a mysterious second choice.
As We Pass the Gummy Aisle, They Declare They Need More Vitamins.
Despite already having plenty, the toddler begins to wail for gummy vitamins, and this continues until we reach the juice aisle, where I grab juice boxes to quiet him. One is handed to the toddler, which prompts his brothers to want one too. My credit card had better work on this trip.
Then It’s Time for SEASONAL!
We must explore unless it’s just the cheap filler items they stock between holidays. Garden gnomes, Halloween costumes, Christmas decorations, Valentine’s Day, and Easter baskets—each one prompts begging and disappointment. Sometimes, I give in and let them pick out an ornament just to keep the peace.
Next, We Head to the Toy Aisle—Specifically Legos.
They cite good deeds in hopes of scoring a Matchbox car, and I endure an avalanche of requests for Dinotrux and various other toys. “Absolutely not!” I chant, trying to maintain my sanity. Eventually, I give in and let them browse while I zone out on my phone. I don’t look up as they excitedly add items to their Christmas wish lists, knowing exactly where each kid is at all times. I settle in the aisle with the best Wi-Fi.
Next Up is the Clearance Section for Kids.
They immediately beg to check out the $5 junk toys across the aisle, and after just a few minutes of whining, I relent. Predictably, we end up arguing about how no one gets anything, resulting in tears—mostly from the toddler, but not exclusively.
Finally, It’s Time to Escape.
Amidst all these stops, I somehow manage to gather what I need. We make our way down the main aisle, the whining slowly morphing into quiet sniffles. I choose the fastest checkout line, which is unfortunately staffed by the slowest cashier. She’s seen it all, and she knows I need to get through quickly before chaos erupts.
Of course, the toddler has a meltdown right as we reach the counter. His cries could be for any number of reasons: the cashier scanning his toy, his brother’s mere presence, or perhaps the deep existential dread of being three. My oldest is once again lying beneath the cart, his antics drawing the attention of other shoppers. I juggle my purse and card, praying it works. Thank you, toddler Jesus—it does! We dash out like we’re in a toy heist.
As I strap them into the car, they immediately scream for Starbucks once more. I refuse, and the cycle of tears resumes. I have to unwrap everything they’ve just acquired, promising I’ll never set foot in Target again. Yet, somehow, I find myself back there two days later because, let’s face it, Target is my sanctuary.
In conclusion, my trips to Target are always a mix of chaos, negotiation, and a hint of hope for some ‘me time’—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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