Page 1 of Insta [FAM]

DION

There’s three days of unwashed dishes piled in the sink, a faulty smoke alarm going off somewhere, a UPS guy who has just showed up at the door, and I’m not wearing any pants. This is what being a thirty-something divorced single mom looks like — it ain’t pretty. Thank the good Lord above that my three tiny humans are at school, so for at least a few hours I don’t have to live my life to the soundtrack of Teen Titans or My Little Pony.

“Don’t open the door!” I yell. Because the fucking bunny will escape and I’m not chasing that fluffy little fucker down the road again, not without pants on anyway. “Just drop it on the mat, I’ll get it in a second,” I yell, unable to find pants to put on to open the door. I own pants, I just don’t have a clue where any of them are right now since I haven’t quite got to laundry yet.

That’s a lie. I'm not going to get to the laundry. I'll probably order new pants, and have UPS drop them on the mat because I have no pants to put on to go out and sign for them. “Thank you,” I holler through the window as I see him leaving again. I open the door a crack and grab my package before any of my nosy ass neighbors can see me. “Not today, fluffy-satan.” I shove the bunny back as she tries to get out through my legs. Giving her the eyeball, I shut the door. This bunny is not what I was sold. She is possessed.

I’m calling bullshit on all of it, the hot vet at the shelter and his big talk about bunnies being amazing house pets. His impressive pecs and smile distracted me, made me lose my senses, now I have the mother-fluffing pet from hell. He said this fucking were-rabbit was house-trained and tame. LIES! It’s the devil in fluff, and it’s trying to kill me, I swear. What’s worse is now my kids love it. I can't even return the bastard thing because then I’ll be the monster, the horrible mom.

My parents and their stupid ideas. Grandparents should need permission slips to be allowed to put ideas in kids’ heads. Especially when the parents will end up caring for said stupid ideas. I can hear my phone ringing somewhere in the abyss, but I can’t remember where I left it, so I’ll call back when I eventually find it. At least it’s not on silent mode this time, I’ll be able to find it. I have a Zoom meeting in twenty minutes, just enough time to quickly pack the dishwasher. I don’t need pants for that.

“Get the fuck out.” I end up removing Lola bunny from inside the dishwasher twice. For a minute, I consider just washing her with the plates if she’s so happy in there, she stinks anyway. We have a mini stand-off before she hops her cute, but evil, bunny-butt out of the kitchen. So much destruction in such sweet packaging.

I rip open the UPS box on the way to my home office, which looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. Opening the replacement charger for my laptop, I toss the packing on the floor. Making sure the bunny is not in the office, I shut the door, and crawl under the desk to unplug the charger that she chewed up yesterday. The exposed wires shock the living shit out of me, and I hit my head on the desk. “Mother fuck!” Cussing like a sailor, I curse that stupid fucking vet to hell and back. When I stop shaking enough to turn the power off, I connect my new cable and think about strangling Dr Mika King with the old one. “Jesus.” My hand hurts from the electric shock, and I can feel my heart racing like I just did cardio for the first time in ten years. “Fucking rabbit,” I mutter.

One look at my screen and I know this is going to be a camera-off meeting for me, I look like an advert for dry-shampoo and sleep deprivation. Thank heavens no-one can smell me through the internet, or they’d start sending me care packs and contact numbers for their therapists. I have one of those — I’m her lost cause. I think she’s ready to write me a script for Chardonnay and call it a day. I say a silent thanks to God for remote work and having my own business, at least I don’t have to go into an actual office to earn a living. I can see the shadow of the demon rabbit at the door, but there’s no feeling sorry for her today, she’s banished from my office. Cuteness isn’t going to catch me again; I know the real bunny.

My morning shitshow continues until the eleven alarms I have set to remind me about school pick-up start going off. I ignore them of course, because I’m busy with a job for a client and I can get there in seven minutes. If I run every red light on the way.

Pants.Fuck. Shit — I’m late.

Still can’t find any, but it’s a drive-through pick-up. I’m not getting out of the car, no-one is going to see anything besides my sunglass-covered resting bitch face. No self-respecting PTA mom would be seen talking to me anyways. I dash through the kitchen and into the garage, hunting for my keys that are probably still in the car from morning drop-off — I hope. Because I can’t find them in the house. I need one of those Apple taggy things to find shit, I swear. Slamming the car door, I impatiently wait for the garage to open and reverse out like I’m ready to join NASCAR.

I’m a pro at taking the shortest, fastest route to the school, and seven minutes after I leave the house, I join the back of the pick-up line. Only eleven minutes late today, that’s a record, I think. My youngest hops in the backseat, gets on her booster and buckles herself in before she even looks at me.

“How was your day honey?” I dare ask.

“Shit.” Lord help my potty-mouthed child. “And you’re late.”

“I’m not.” She just glares from the dashboard clock to me, and I know I’m not winning any fights with her today. “Why was your day shit, baby?”

“That boy Ryan licked me, so I kicked him and then I had to go to the thinking chair.” They should just call it the Holly-Anna chair and be done with it. She sits there every day. I know she isn’t thinking about anything but murder when she’s on it either.

“Did he have to go to the thinking chair for licking you?” Because, gross.

“Yes. I had to sit next to him, and he looked at me!” She’s mortified.

“That’s awful. Want me to talk to the teacher?” I will take her on, but I would rather not have to deal with any of it if I can avoid it.

“Lord, no Mama. You are the worst. That’s embarrassing. I’ll just kick him quietly next time.” Okay, then — I guess I’m either raising her really right, or really wrong. No middle ground there.

“Let’s go get your sister.” We pull into the traffic, and she notices my lack of attire. “Where are your pants?”

“I couldn’t find any and I was late.” It sounded better in my head.

“Better hope the cops don’t stop us today.” She snickers just thinking about it. “Can you step out of the vehicle, mam?” She laughs. “No orifice-er, I have no pants on.” She’s got the giggles now and I can’t help but laugh with her. I didn’t think this through clearly. The idea of me getting pulled over pants-less is very amusing to my six-year-old. Half-way to the middle school a few blocks away, the fuel light comes on. Doublefuck. We should make it. Maybe. Holly-Anna is singing along with some song playing on the radio when we pull up to the pick-up at Nelly’s school a whole three minutes early. Mom win.

The first kid out the gate when the bell goes is mine, she couldn’t hate school more if she tried. Looking like she was dragged through a hedge, she pulls her bag behind her down the sidewalk and gets in the car beside her sister.

“Hey, baby, how was your day?” I wait for the same response as Holly-Anna, but I get, “Fine,” instead. Fine is good, it’s better than ‘shit’ so we’ll take it.

“That’s good.” We eventually move along, and my car is now beeping loudly to remind me I need to fill up. There’s enough time to fill up, take the girls for a drive-thru lunch and get back to collect Zach after his swim practice this afternoon. No one will know about the pants situation. Nelly can pump gas for me, I’m sure she’ll manage. She’ll have to because these undies are not for public viewing, they’re bottom-of-the wash-basket undies. Period undies are better than the Bridget Jones bloomers I have on.

Talking your eleven-year-old girl child through pumping gas while not being able to get out of the car is like trying to explain to a man where your clit is. They get close but it’s just not quite there, and you’re left frustrated. In the end, I have gas in my car, and we get in the line at McDs. I wish they had a large McWine on the menu, but I don’t need a DUI, so I get myself a coffee and food for the two hangry little people in the back. I add two meals for my teenage son who will eat one of his sisters’ if I don’t.

“Why can’t Zach just walk home?” Holly-Anna whines, fed up and wanting to go home.

“Why can’t you just walk?” Her sister starts a fight.