Dear Target,

You and I, we go way back. Ok, back like 15 years at least, to when I discovered that you'd opened a store in Westminster, Maryland. There was one in York, too, but crossing the state line was easier than driving to that hot mess of a shopping district in the next county over.

Target, we called you, with mock-pretension, by the French pronunciation as if you were the chic boutique instead of box store a step above Wal-Mart.

Target, I considered you a valuable field trip throughout both my maternity leaves and a fun outing at least once a week, every summer.

Target, your jewelry always gets flattering comments and inquiries as to its origin, as if it were hand-beaded by a skilled artisan and not someone in a factory in Korea.

Target, your Moxie chocolate and I, we get along all too well.

Target, my children are often dressed head to toe in your Circo or Osh-Kosh or Cherokee clothes, and I adore the no-brainer, mix-n-matchiness of your tables full of $4 pants and shirts.

But...Target?

Learn the alphabet.

Don't worry, Target. Ellie doesn't know her ABC's yet either.