Page 2 of Insta [FAM]

“The only one who can’t walk home is me, so I suggest you two can-it or I’ll offload both of you.” I’m not in the mood to listen to them bicker for the next twenty minutes. They stop, but I can see them having a silent war in the rearview mirror as we drive to the high school. I park in the car park as far away from the school as I can get, and we eat our lunch with the windows up and the AC on full blast. Not taking chances of anyone wanting to chat. When I see Zach standing outside the gate looking for me, I send his sister to go fetch him. He gets in front, puts on his safety belt, then asks me, “Why are we parked in another state?” Huffing, as if the walk killed him.

“No pants,” Holly-Anna answers before I can.

“Mom, Jesus,” He says, rolling his eyes. They know who their mom is, I don’t know why any of them act surprised when my shit is not together. I’m the fun mom, the cool mom, the mom who lets you cuss mom, I’m not the mom who wears pants on laundry day.

“Shhh. I got you lunch.” I hand him the McDs bag and start the car. Food will silence any teenage boy. It’s science. I do need to find some pants when we get home, this is becoming a situation. Pulling up to our house, I push the remote button to open the garage, planning to pull inside, close the door and then get out unseen.

But no, the universe has other plans today. As I open the door, the bunny — who has got herself into the garage, bolts down the road. Both girls start wailing for me to catch their precious pet, so I have to get out of the car, with Zach right behind me, and run after the bunny. In my undies. With the neighbors watching. Bunnies are fast, unfit middle-aged women who refuse to do yoga are not. Lola bunny, unphased by my current state of dress, is having a blast running full tilt down the road as if no one is trying to catch her. She even stops to eat someone’s flowers, the little bitch. I can’t breathe, I have a stitch and I’m probably going to have a coronary episode and die, with no pants on in the middle of the street. I can just see the horror on the EMT’s face now.

“I’ll get her, Mom,” Zach says, diving for the fluff-devil. He hands me the cute but demonic rabbit and I do the most epic walk of shame all the way home, whispering to Lola, “You are so fucking lucky you are cute, because rabbit pie sounds awfully good for dinner tonight.” I hold her tight because she’s a sly shit and will probably try to bolt off again. Ignoring the looks from people, and the fact that a cyclist just nearly crashed looking at me walking about in my oh-so-unsexy underwear, I eventually close the garage door.

* * *

“Moooooooom.” Zach is yelling from down the hall. “Mom!”

“What?” I yell back, because I’m invested in some cheesy shit Netflix show with the girls right now and can’t be asked to deal with teenage angst.

“Mom, seriously!”

“Zach, seriously. What the fuck?” He’s got his face glued to his iPhone as he trudges into the living room.

“You’ve gone viral on Instagram! Thanks for ruining my whole life. Again.” He throws the phone at me. I contemplate killing him with it for a minute, then remember he’s my son and I love him.

“What the fuck, I’ll swat you. Throw things at me like that and see how well your forehead catches. What are you talking about?”

“Your pants-less bunny hunt is all over social media, but one Instagram reel has gone completely viral. I’m going to die of humiliation, I’m not going to school on Monday.” He’s so dramatic, I wonder if having two sisters has made it worse.

“You’re not staying home, so I don’t know where you’re going to go? I have work and I can’t work with you heathens in the house.” Oh shit, he’s not lying. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! “Take this down.” I hand him the phone.

“I can’t take it down, I didn't post it,” he says like I should know that. “You can’t do anything, I already tried reporting it, but Instagram says there’s nothing wrong with it.” Nothing wrong? Has Instagram seen my ass?

“It’s my fat ass running down the road in my period undies! How is there nothing wrong?” I’m trying very hard not to freak the hell out. My son is already freaking out. Holly-Anna grabs his phone, and now she and Nelly are laughing hysterically at the video. “Not funny,” I say, trying to grab it back from them, but they toss it at me, and I can't catch it, so I miss it. Now it’s my phone that’s ringing.

Shit. I can’t find it, again.

It’s fallen down the side of the couch and is wedged in so tight it lives there now, which is probably a good thing now that that video is out in the wild. I can just pretend no-one is going to see it and hibernate. Hibernation is a thing. Right?

I eventually use the chopsticks from last night’s take out to fish it out. There’s a missed call from Kerry. We have been friends for thirty years, and I’m sure her daughter has shown her my delightful dash down the road. There’s a voice note in messenger from my sister who is no doubt loving this way too much. I don’t listen because I know she’s mocking me.

“Zach.” I call my moody teen back into the room. “How do I do that thing where I make a video to reply to their video?”

“God, Mom, please just don’t.” He shakes his head.

“I am. So help me or it’ll be worse if I do it myself!” I will butcher it if unsupervised.

“I want no part of this. You’re on your own.” He throws his hands up and leaves.

“I’ll help,” Nelly says, and I have an ally. She helps me record my three-minute rant about the fluffing-devil-rabbit and the vet who convinced us to get her. Then I tag the shelter, and the vet, in my post, switch my phone off and go to bed.