Hey Target Mom, You’re the Bomb

I spent the morning in Target (because it is a day ending in “y,” and also #summertime, and #3kidsunder4), and a funny thing occurred to me, as I swept past the toy section with my three kids–desperately trying, and failing, to distract them from the sea of plastic we were passing.

One preternaturally calm mama-of-two was right there in front of me, keeping her whining kids so in check that it literally stopped me in my tracks.

And each aisle I passed, there was another mom doing some other similar feat.

I laughed to myself.

We are Target Moms.

And Target Moms? Not to brag, but we are kind THE SHIT.

Who qualifies as a Target Mom?

Do you dare enter those four cherry-red walls with at least one other human being under the age of 12?

Do you deal with tantrums and overflowing bags of popcorn and pushing your kids past that damn $1 toy bin as they scream JUST ONE MORE PENCIL SET!!!!! without flinching?

Then you too, my friend, are a Target Mom.

And you are a badass.

Why?

Among many, many other incredible qualities you possess and utilize beyond the inertial grip of that Hellhole-slash-Heaven of a place, you can do all of the following things. Like, perfectly.

1 – You can handle The Public Tantrum

Hey mom with the toddler in the cart and the six-year-old with the glazed-over eyes, drooling in front of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle display? Good job in managing the wailing, snotty breakdown your 2-year-old just dished out because he can’t get out of the cart and stuff ALL THE LEGOS into his pocket. You handled that snotty screamfest LIKE A BOSS.

Because you are The Target Mom.

2 – You can balance it all—literally and figuratively

I see you over there, holding a six-month-old on your hip, asking an associate where the chicken breast is, elbowing a box of mac and cheese into your cart from the shelf while gripping a bag of Halos with your bare toes (nice pedicure!).

You? You’re a badass. Cirque du Soleil could learn a thing or two from your ability to balance it all.

You, my friend, are The Target Mom.

3 – You can say “no” calmly… like, 15-thousand times in one trip

Ah, yes. This type of Target Mom has mastered The Zen. How many times can one sane (I use that word loosely) human withstand the asking of the same question over a period of 45 minutes—ad nauseum, on repeat—often with a shrill whine accompanying it?

If you’re a Target Mom, the answer is A QUATRILLION.

You’ve got this “remain calm” thing down pat. Because, yes, you are The Target Mom.

4 – You FAST, girl

Usain Bolt who? Show me one person who can run faster than you while you’re trying to make it to checkout before your 6-month-old has a massive diaper blowout again, for the third time this morning. No one! That’s who.

Because when you’ve gotta cut and run—even though, let’s be honest, you never really want to leave, because it’s Target—you, girl, are lightning. Good thing you’ve been wearing the same pair of sneakers every day for four years in a row, because you’re gonna need a comfy shoe to round that bend into Lane 5 before the meandering teenager does. RUN FORREST, RUN!!!!

Who needs a gym membership?

5 – You’re hysterical… and not judgmental

You know who will laugh at anything, at any time?

Who doesn’t judge you for circling the store four times and still forgetting why you went there in the first place?

Who–with a wink and a smile–catches your 2-year-old by the ankle as she tries to hop out of the cart and hurtle herself into the Frozen toy aisle, again?

You. You’re awesome, Target Mom. (And thanks for catching my daughter.)

***

Yes, if you’re looking, the Target Mom is easy to spot. Beyond her natural habitat, she can also be found, well, anywhere, just handling her shit.

So go on, Target Mom. I see you.

And thanks for catching my kid.

 

Sonni Abatta runs an Orlando lifestyle and mom blog. She also runs herself ragged chasing after her three kids, but truly does love every moment. Especially the moments in Target. Have a question, qualm or want to collaborate? Reach out! Sonni@SonniAbatta.com.

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