how Target makes me feel like SuperMom.

Here's a post from a blog I read daily, I can totally relate except I don't have four small children.

I'm not entirely sure why, but taking all of our four (five, if you count ourbun in the oven, which I most certainly do, since he or she has already earned a space on the sidebar of my blog and I have nausea and heartburn which are compounding daily due to the little babe) children to Target makes me feel like SuperMom. See, I don't normally feel like SuperMom. But on days when we make the trek to Target because we are down to one dribble of syrup and four squares of toilet paper, I do.

It's not because our children are exceptionally well-behaved while we're at Target, or because I have my finest mothering moments, though. I mean, we do fine. But about average. Nothing special. We get there. We shop. We leave. It's just that, I don't know if it's the ages or number of our children, probably both, but going to Target is a big production. It takes all afternoon. It strips me of my energy. It's hard. It's exhausting. It takes a lot of concentration, planning and patience. Oh, the patience. It's difficult to do it while staying sane, so going to Target with all of our children makes me feel like I really achieved something.

I don't mean to be overly dramatic, I really don't. Perhaps you can relate to my Target experiences, perhaps you can't. All I know is that for me, I feel like SuperMom when we hit Target. I suppose I mostly feel so accomplished simply because we do it. And we survive.

It's the little victories that we ought to celebrate as mothers anyway, right? Changing a boy diaper without getting squirted on. Making dinner while, well, while making dinner. Remembering to add baby wipes to the grocery list. And taking the kids out to Target. I would avoid it if I could, to tell you the truth. But my life has little room for such pleasantries as grocery shopping alone.

So this afternoon, after taking all four kids to the pediatrician so that two of them could have their well child visits (all four children are allowed in the exam room each time, but only two can be "seen" at each visit, necessitating two trips to the pediatrician so that all four can have their check ups), we headed to the big red bullseye. It was an adventure, as usual.

Get the kids out of their carseats and into the Target cart. (If you're keeping track, four children into the car, out at the pediatrician, back in after the appointment and back out at Target brings me to sixteen in or out of carseat maneuvers just thus far.) Wheel into the store. Take off coats and shove them into a corner of the cart. Stop at the pharmacy so that I can drop off a prescription. Ask Stellan to stop hitting his sister. Go buy a soft pretzel for everyone to share. Look for a cup holder to attach to the side of our cart. Get a cup of water for the cup holder. Bolt to the produce section while everyone is still munching, determining to make the most of the semi silence the soft treat affords me. Throw some fruits and vegetables in the cart. Run up and down the aisles, Supermarket Sweep style, glancing at my list with one eye as I spot what I need on the shelves with my other. Ask Stellan's sister to stop hitting him. Stop to make sure the oldest two are holding on the side of the cart as they are supposed to be. Go back to the produce section to get avocados since I forgot them. Ask Stellan to stop hitting his sister. Let everyone know that was the end of the pretzel, there is no more. Pick up Stellan and put him on my hip, as the hitting apparently sees no end. Get a huge box of diapers and another of wipes and shove them beneath the cart. Go to the sheet aisle and get new bedroom sheets (Red!) since our old fitted sheet ripped quite some time ago and we had yet to replace it. Pick up the diaper and wipes boxes as they repeatedly slide off the bottom of the cart. Say, "No, we are not buying that" about four hundred times. Go back to the pharmacy and pick up the prescription. Find a check out lane. Unload, with the help of my "helpers." Lose a child. Find the child. Remind everyone to touch the candy and toys in the check out lane "with one finger." Pay. Load bags into the cart. Marvel at where all the space went, as now that the bags are in, there is no room for any children. Put coats back on. Carry someone on each hip and have an older child help push the cart. Make our way into the freezing cold and get back into the car, arriving at twenty in or out of carseat maneuvers. Load the groceries and assorted items. Drive away.

And while I realize that this Target run doesn't make me that much different than any other mom who shops at Target with her children, I still feel like SuperMom. And that's just the joy of it. Each in our own ways, all of us mothers are SuperMoms. We do what we need to do, every single day. In the big and in the small. We make food. We change diapers. We may work or we may stay at home, but there is a proverbial trip to Target in all of us, and maybe it's just that when our husband works late we do bedtime with the kids by ourselves. Or, for me, on Sunday mornings when I get all the kids dressed and am already brushing their hair by the time Prince Charming hops out of the shower after I let him sleep in a little.

And for me, it's also the red shopping carts laden with MSC (Many Small Children) that I push up and down the aisles that make me fell like SuperMom. I know it's not much, but sometimes, these days, it's all I got.

So I'll celebrate it.