A Refreshingly Candid Account of Every Trip to Target I’ve Ever Made

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Let’s be real: each Target trip unfolds like a predictable script. Regardless of the season, the shopping list, or the number of children I have in tow—whether friends, family, or the neighbor’s kids are with us—it’s always the same. We park near the cart return, ensuring I can quickly wrangle the kids into their designated spaces. The toddler, of course, hops into the cart—not the seat, but the basket—while the 5 and 6-year-olds cling desperately to the edges. And off we go, navigating the parking lot without casualties.

First on the agenda? Starbucks.

“Oh, please, Mom!” they wail, eyes wide with longing. I refuse, earning the title of “worst mom ever.” Cue the tears for their sad lack of soy milk steamers. With dramatic gestures toward the barista and theatrics that would win an Oscar, I manage to hustle them past.

Next stop: the Dollar Spot.

We always end up here. I might want something, but inevitably end up in a “buy me toys” showdown. I grab Ninja Turtle socks for the toddler because, let’s face it, one sock always goes missing. The older two lobby for light-up skulls, sticker books, and excavation kits. “No,” I say, and they plead. “No,” I repeat, but the toddler’s yearning for stickers turns into a full-blown negotiation. Suddenly, everyone’s getting battery-powered fans or something equally frivolous that takes ten minutes to choose. The Dollar Spot? My nemesis.

In a desperate bid for “me time,” I venture into the women’s clothing section.

The toddler, feeling feisty, immediately wants to escape, prompting a chaotic chase down the aisle. I try to focus on the racks of clothes, but the disapproving glares from older shoppers and Target employees force me to return the toddler to the cart, where he promptly screams. Nice try, Judgy McJudgerson.

My oldest attempts to lie under the cart as we move.

“Stop that! You’ll hurt yourself!” I exclaim, but he just rolls his eyes and vows to try again at the first chance. Meanwhile, I make my way to the makeup section, because, you guessed it, I always need makeup.

The boys begin suggesting eyeshadow colors and begging for sparkly nail polish. When I decline, they resort to requesting cotton balls—swearing they’re for crafts but instead declaring “Snowball!” and tossing them at each other. Q-Tips become the mysterious backup.

We drive past the gummy vitamins aisle next.

“More vitamins!” they cry. But they already have plenty. The toddler starts a piercing scream for vitamins that won’t stop until we hit the juice aisle. I grab juice boxes, handing one to the toddler to silence him. Naturally, this means his brothers also need one. My credit card better be ready for this Target adventure.

Then it’s time for SEASONAL!

This section demands our attention, unless it’s just the cheap stuff they stock between holidays. Here, I might find garden gnomes, Halloween costumes, Christmas trinkets, and Easter baskets! We must investigate everything, leading to a chorus of begging and inevitable heartbreak when I refuse to buy. Sometimes, I let them pick an ornament just to restore some peace. No shame over here!

Next, we hit the toy aisle, specifically the Legos.

The kids cite good behavior as a reason for one Matchbox car. They beg for Dinotrux, pointing out prices, and sadness ensues when I insist, “You’re not getting anything!” It’s my demented anti-consumerism mantra. Eventually, I sit on my phone while they peruse various Lego sets, Ninja Turtles, and Star Wars figures. I don’t lift my head from Facebook when they insist on adding to their Christmas lists. They squeal, and onlookers give me the side-eye, but I keep track of where each child is at all times and find the aisle with the best Wi-Fi to park myself.

Then comes the children’s clearance section.

They whine to check out the $5 junk toys across the aisle while I sift through discounted clothing. After a few minutes of whining, I relent, leading to a showdown over who gets to pick something. This culminates in tears—both from the toddler and me. Target, your layout is a nightmare.

Finally, it’s time to escape.

Amidst all this chaos, I’ve somehow gathered what I needed—or was coerced into buying. We make our way down the center aisle, departing from the $5 toys, with cries turning into sniffles. I opt for the quickest checkout line, which is inevitably manned by the oldest lady there, who’s seen it all. She knows the stakes: I have about two minutes before someone loses it.

Then, the toddler launches into a full-blown meltdown right in the checkout line.

Is he upset because the “mean lady” has to scan his toy? Is he mad because his brother dared to breathe near him? Or is he just experiencing the existential dread of being three? Who knows. My oldest seems lost, having once again crawled under the cart, possibly on top of a bag of dog food. Of course, someone else points this out to me, as if I’m the worst parent in history. I finally manage to open my purse and slide my card into the chip reader. It works—thank you, dear toddler Jesus. We bolt out like it’s a race.

And then they scream for Starbucks again.

I say no, and tears reignite. The toddler never stopped crying, anyway. I strap them into the car, and they cry for their Matchbox cars or dollar toys, demanding I unwrap everything. I swear I’ll never return to Target. Yet, two days later, I’m back. Because I need it. Because Target is my sanctuary.

In summary, my trips to Target are a predictable whirlwind of chaos featuring insatiable kids, relentless toy negotiations, and the occasional moment of “me time” that quickly devolves into more madness. Through it all, I somehow manage to gather what I need while reminding myself that this retail escapade is just part of the parenting experience.