Page 7 of Insta [FAM]

I’m still dirty about the visit from the vet. Fuck him. Like I would hurt an animal. I’m the one with bruises, bunny bites and my ass all over the internet thanks to her. So far the only animal we haven’t managed to keep alive is a goldfish, but in my defense, it looked a bit iffy when we got it so I’m only half-responsible for that. I think the dodgy pet shop was to blame for that toilet-funeral.

“Granny!” Holly-Anna announces their arrival with a window-shattering scream. It goes straight through my fucking head like a knife. I’m last to get greeted, as usual. Once you have kids, your parents no longer worry about you.

“Hi, Dad.” I kiss my dad on the cheek and shut the door just in case they haven’t managed to wrangle the bunny into some sort of confinement. I do not need a run today, I’m allergic to exercise on a good day. Bunny to 5K isn’t on my list of resolutions.

Lunch, candy, and hutch-building pass the afternoon in a blur of way too much noise, and my mother is mortified when Zach shows her the video of me chasing the rabbit. I blame her — since it was her idea to get the girls a pet. In fact, this is all my mother’s fault. All of it.

By the time they go home, I’m ready to crawl straight into bed. But no. I’m a mom, so first I need to pack lunches, find a sports kit and Holly-Anna’s favorite shoe. The one that Lola has chewed a hole in — fuck. Only after all of that do I grab my phone and flop down on my still unmade bed.

The alarming number of notifications should be a red flag but I still open Instagram just to see.

I wasn’t prepared.

But one DM catches my eye and I open that one first.

Dr Mika - Take it down.

I laugh, and reply like a teenager starting a fight on Facebook.

Make me.

What an asshat. Can’t take a joke on the internet. Shame, his poor, fragile, manly ego.

* * *

Monday — fucking Monday. My work email is overflowing because apparently making a complete fool of yourself online is great for business. My notifications are beeping every five seconds, and I haven’t even got my second cup of coffee in yet.

“Morning, Sunshine,” my sister greets, coming into the office fresh as a daisy. Fuck her.

“There is zero sunshine. None,” I reply, scrolling through the shitshow that is my inbox. “We are going to have to turn people away,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“The hell we will. I’ll outsource some of this. Get a freelancer in to help with what we can, but we’re not turning anyone away. This is fucking awesome!” I’m too tired to be awesome. I know she’s right, but everything in moderation. It’s Monday, for the love of God.

“Whatever, you need to sort the planning, not me.” That is not my talent. “I’ll do as many of these new clients as I can.” Sifting through the chaos, I start my day working on jobs that were already in the pipeline, while Amelia gets going on scheduling all these new ones.

By the time school pick-up rolls around I’m ready to walk away from the screen, yesterday's hangover is today's headache, and it’s not a joke. I fetch the girls, Zach is going to Kerry’s after school to do some sort of group project with her daughter, Willow. We keep joking that they need to fall in love so we can be in-laws. They don’t approve though. Willow is way too quiet for Zach, and his asshole jock friends wouldn’t be nice to her, then I’d kill them all.

Nelly has a softball game at four, so we rush home for her to change and get her gear. I pack a cooler with the ‘mom-juices’ and some snacks to keep Holly-Anna from eating her friends. At least Charlotte will be there, her daughter is on the same team. Kerry said she’d meet us there and drop Zach off, that way we could catch up, and look like we’re good moms at the same time. I have zero fucks to give about middle school softball, but it’s a trip out of my home office which I don’t mind at all. Nelly hates it if I watch — according to eleven-year-old wisdom, I’m just too much.

“We’re going to be late!” I yell, trying to get my kids into the car. Amelia is still here. She has Lola on the kitchen counter feeding her kale from her plate. I just roll my eyes and carry on with the Monday afternoon mad rush. Why do I have sporty kids? Overachievers — I’m an under-achiever-mom. I would be extra happy if we had no after-school activities at all. Nelly and Holly-Anna argue and fight so much that I turn up my playlist loud enough to drown their bickering out completely. If they fight, I fight back with nineties emo-rock that’ll embarrass the shit out of them. They know if they carry on, I’ll start singing and dancing in my seat, so they stop.

Char and Kerry are already on the bleachers when we arrive. Nelly curses about always being late. “At least I’m wearing pants!” I shout after her as she runs off to the dugout. My willful eleven-year-old flips me the bird, and I’m not even mad at her for it. No one will ever give that child shit — because she won’t take it, not even from me.

“I brought juice,” I say, putting the cooler down and sitting myself between my friends.

“I saw your bunny post went all sorts of viral again,” Kerry says, scrolling on her phone. She’s on social media all the time. She claims it’s for work but I think she’s just an addict. She lives for drama, gossip and scandal, she’s got a boring life, and that’s about all she’s got. She lives vicariously through others.

“That vet had the nerve — the fucking balls — to tell me to take it down. What an idiot. It's a story, it does that by itself after twenty-four hours.” I roll my eyes and sip on my strawberry flavored vodka martini, which is very well-hidden in my mom-mug.

“Who is this guy?” Charlotte asks. “I think we need to look into the vet, because I didn’t like his tone.” She pulls her face up like there’s a bad smell in the air.

“He is toned, yes,” Kerry says, and we all laugh, getting stares from the ‘other’ mothers, the ones who have their shit together and haven’t realized their husbands are fucking their secretaries yet. The ones with their hair did, and matching underwear, I’m sure. They actually watch these games and know the score. ‘Bored’ has their pictures next to it when you look it up.

“I’m going to dig a bit.” Charlotte launches an FBI level internet search, and we join in, because no one can find dirt like a divorcee. We know stuff. Sniffing out information and finding hidden profiles is a unique talent of scorned wives.

“The vet has a very interesting past,” she says, deeply engrossed in her google search. “He’s a foreigner.” The accent had already given that away. “What’s rugby?” Kerry asks, looking over her shoulder. “Lordy, look at his legs in those shorty-shorts.” Now I need to see, I was trying to act uninterested, but now I’m invested.

“God.” I cover my mouth because I just got a look and a shhh from Martha Stewart's twin sister in front of us. “Dr Dolittle is hot as fuck,” I whisper.