Every mom knows Target is supposed to be therapy. It’s where you go to wander aimlessly down aisles, buy throw pillows you don’t need, and sip your iced latte while pretending life is under control. That is, unless you bring your kids. Then it’s not therapy. It’s theater. Chaotic, unscripted theater.
Act I: The Entrance
It starts hopeful. I roll into the store with a cart, kids trailing behind me like ducklings. Anthony insists on riding in the big part of the cart, legs sprawled like he’s on a throne. Nico wants to “help push,” which is code for slamming me into every endcap display. And Rex, if he’s with us, is already distracted by the electronics section before I’ve even grabbed the list.
I always have a list, by the way. And I always abandon it halfway through because Target hypnotizes me with $5 candles and seasonal mugs. But before I can get lost in the dollar spot, Anthony’s yelling “MOM, LOOK!” and waving a toy sword he’s somehow acquired without me noticing. How did he even get that? He was literally strapped in.
Act II: The Middle Stretch
This is where things get interesting. I’m trying to grab detergent, paper towels, bread, the basics, but the kids are staging their own performance. Nico is negotiating for snacks like a tiny lawyer, presenting arguments about why we “need” the giant pack of cookies. Anthony keeps dropping items into the cart when I’m not looking—last week I found six packs of Pokémon cards buried under the produce. Six!
Somewhere around aisle 7, I’ve given up on control. I bribe them with snacks just to keep them from climbing the shelves. Yes, I’m that mom who opens a bag of Goldfish before paying. Judge me all you want, Karen from aisle 12, but at least my kid isn’t licking the cart handle anymore.
And let’s not forget the bathroom trip. Every Target run has one. Always when the cart is full, always when I’m two seconds from checking out. “Mom, I have to go! NOW!” Cue the dramatic sprint to the restroom, leaving my cart in the care of strangers who may or may not raid it for my throw pillows.
Act III: The Checkout
By this point, we look like we’ve survived a natural disaster. Anthony’s sticky, Nico’s sulking, I’m sweating, and Rex is mysteriously holding three new T-shirts he definitely doesn’t need. I hand over my debit card with the glazed look of someone who blacked out and woke up $200 poorer.
The cashier smiles that polite smile, scanning my mountain of stuff, while I’m distracted trying to stop Anthony from putting the credit card machine cord in his mouth. Nico’s asking for gum. Rex is gone again—where? Oh right, still in electronics.
We finally roll out into the parking lot like war heroes. Bags crammed, cart squeaky, everyone cranky. And yet, here’s the kicker: I know I’ll do it again next week. Because even with the chaos, Target is still my happy place. There’s something comforting about the red carts, the Starbucks smell, and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I’ll sneak one thing in the bag that’s just for me.
And that’s motherhood in a nutshell. A comedy, a mess, and somehow the best part of the week.