Scene: 3:12 PM. Target parking lot. Engine running. Coffee secured.

I am alone. I have done the impossible. I peeled my goblin-covered body off the couch, tiptoed past Jack’s Nintendo fort and James’s interpretive dance protest, and whispered to my husband, “I’m just running to Target.”

He blinked. Slowly. Like someone who just realized he was about to be outnumbered.

I kissed them all goodbye like I was heading into battle. And then—I pulled out of the driveway.

And that’s when it hit me.

I hadn’t even turned onto Main Street before I felt the psychic ripple of what I’d left behind. I hadn’t gone to Target. I had escaped to Target. And the house, at this very moment, was probably:

• Down one remote

• Up three partially eaten string cheeses

• Somewhere inside a debate about whether pants are “oppressive”

• Hosting a toddler-led expedition into the kitchen cabinet labeled “DO NOT ENTER”

The mental camera cuts to Dan, standing in the kitchen surrounded by toy wreckage, muttering “This is fine” while holding an ice pack to his temple and wearing a tiara Chunk found in the couch. Jack is trying to explain how the Wi-Fi password doesn’t work when spelled backward. Pookie has gone full shadow lurker mode, watching from the hallway like a disapproving librarian.

Meanwhile, me? I haven’t even parked yet. I’m gripping the steering wheel, breathing like someone who forgot what breathing was for. I just wanted deodorant. Maybe a throw pillow. Maybe five unnecessary candles and a bottle of wine named “Mom’s Little Victory.”

This isn’t just an errand. It’s a spiritual cleanse. A silent retreat. A test of willpower to not turn back and shout instructions about bedtime logistics or why Chunk cannot eat only shredded cheese and revenge.

And I know—when I return—James will greet me at the door with glitter on his face and a look that says, “We found new ways to love chaos.”

So I drive on. Into the fluorescent arms of Target. Knowing I’ve left behind a mess. A husband clinging to sanity. And two goblins who call me “Mom” but behave like rogue sitcom writers with a twist for drama.

Target, take me in your embrace. I need aisle seven to heal my soul.