Page 6 of Insta [FAM]

DION

“Who does he think he is? Fucking Dr Dolittle?” Ugh, really.

“Dr Dolittle wasn’t that hot,” Olivia points out, swilling her wine around. “I’m still not convinced that was even a real vet, maybe you’re being punked.” Kerry giggles and tops up her glass.

“Also, he can’t sue you over a social media post, not easily anyway. That’s a whole other shitshow,” Charlotte adds in.

“You’re an intellectual property lawyer, what do you know about it? Besides, I don’t give a shit if he sues me, he adopted me a bunny under false pretensesness. I should sue his ass.” I’m drunk enough that what I say makes sense to myself.

“It’s a nice ass.” It is, Amelia isn’t wrong there. I hate agreeing with my sister, but damn, it is a nice ass. There’s not much about him that’s not nice — except that attitude. That could use a little work.

“If only he had a nice personality to go with it,” I say, grabbing a piece of cold pizza to soak up some of the wine in my belly. I’m starting to feel a bit like the earth is tilted to the left. “Who just knocks on someone’s door on a Saturday afternoon? Has he not heard of texting?” It’s almost as bad as actually calling a person.

“He was trying to catch you out,” Olivia says.

“Out of what?” Kerry asks, having missed a bit of what’s going on around her.

“Her knickers.” Amelia bursts out laughing at her own joke. We have a good chuckle and drink more wine. Kerry and Char move on to gin, but that shit makes me cry so I stick to my Rosé. These girls have been my sanity, the family I chose — also, I won all the good friends in the divorce settlement.

“You know what—” I have an idea, “I’m going to make Dr Dolittle and that mother-fluffing-bunny Insta-famous.” It is not a good idea. But I’m drunk so good and bad ideas all just fall under ideas and we have time and wine so why not?

“Ooooh, can we help?” My sister is way too enthused by this for it to be a good idea. “I’ll find Lola.” She stumbles and sways upstairs to catch the demon-bunny. Minutes later, the bunny comes running down the stairs in a blur of fluff and ears. Amelia rolls down, ass over kettle after her. It sort of happens in slow motion, making it even funnier. I shouldn’t laugh, but I do, because it’s fucking funny. She’s cussing the rabbit, holding her head and calling it a furry murderer.

I know catching that rabbit is like an Olympic sport, you must have skills. Either you need to be Usain Bolt, or you need a banana. Banana is bunny crack. They cannot resist it. So are Apple lightning cables apparently. I fetch a banana and trap the fur-devil in a laundry basket. Which is empty, because I still haven’t done laundry. I really ordered pants online instead. Sitting the mother-fluffing-bunny on my lap with her sweet snack. Her cute little twitching nose makes her look innocent, as if she hasn’t been upstairs destroying something. I switch on Instagram Live and start my rant — and it is a good rant. As all drunken ones are. I tell the world about how these shelters use good-looking men and fluffy pets to get us to help them. It’s all a con. The hot vet is my case and point, men like that don’t exist outside of superhero movies and that Game of Thrones dude. Also, who puts a bunny in front of a six-year-old girl and thinks their parents will get away without the bunny — they know what they’re doing, and it should be illegal. “Entrapment is what it is!” I end my video feeling like I have saved the world from devil-bunnies and good-looking vets with pecs everywhere. Making sure to tag sexy-vet and his shelter in my comments, we carry on with the book-of-the-wine-of-the month club. It turns into a giant sleepover because none of the moms can drive home, and all the kids are passed out all over my house. We just accept our hot-mess and turn in for the night. Olivia is in my bed spooning me like I’m one of her book characters. Charlotte is on my kids’ Minnie Mouse airbed, her feet dangling off the end because it’s made for four-foot crotch-demons, not nearly six-foot lawyers. Kerry didn’t make it upstairs and Amelia is sleeping with the girls, hugging Lola The Devil like she’s a teddy bear. I hate that bunny.

Sundays are for hangovers and grandparents — neither of them goes well together. You know what’s worse than stepping on Lego? Stepping on a bunny poop when you drank enough wine to drown the rabbit the night before.

“Get up, you bunch. Your grandparents are on the way, and we need to clean up this shitshow fast!” I yell upstairs, after seeing all my friends and their kids out. I have a dry mouth, and rabbit shit stuck to my foot — and the kitchen looks like a war zone too. Book club is not about books, even when your bestie is an actual book writer. The number of empty bottles gives us away. Shit.

“Ugh, Mom!” Zach groans, looking around the kitchen.

“Shut it and help me.” I toss a garbage bag at him, and we clear up the pizza boxes and bottles. Shove everything that can be hidden in the dishwasher in it and close the door.

“Nelly, Holly-Anna!” he screams, upset that he’s the only one cleaning. “Come help.” We quickly tackle the house as a team, the kids went to bed so late they look hungover too. Cranky seems to be the mood of the day.

“Shower, all of you. Then find that bunny and put her somewhere she can’t escape.” I need a shower too, I’m pretty sure I can smell myself. I sniff my armpit, that’s definitely me. It’s nasty.

“What's for lunch?” Nelly asks.

“Rabbit pie if you don’t find that fluffy little shit and lock it up,” I say, picking up half my phone charger.

“Nooo, Mom.” Holly-Anna protests my desire to eat her monster pet. “Can we have chicken or fish, please.” Fuck no, I’m not in the mood to cook shit. We’ll be having whatever can be delivered in time for lunch.

“No. We’ll order in,” I say, tidying up the counters and making it look like we didn’t have a small army of people here last night.

“Again?” Nelly protests. “Please, no more pizza, anything else.”

“Jesus, Mom,” Zach says with his face on his phone. “Please can you get off social media or change your name or something. I’m going to have to have plastic surgery, dye my hair and change my identity if you don’t.”

“You are such a drama queen,” I say, grabbing his phone because mine is dead and Lola The Horrible ate my new charger. My rant from last night has almost a hundred thousand views. Shit. I didn’t expect that. I was just ranting. “It’s not even bad. Tell the kids at school to get with it. Your mom is a virus.”

“Viral. God, you are the worst!” He’s unimpressed by my internet fame.

“Fuck off, I’m the best mom and you know it. Because if you don’t then this is my iPhone, and you don't have one for a week. The worst mom — she’d do that.” I dangle his phone in front of his face then pull it away.

“You’re not the worst, but please get off Instagram, Mom. I’d like at least a chance of having a girlfriend before high school is over.” I try my best to be just embarrassing enough that the kids fear me but fun enough that they all want to hang out at my house so I can see what they’re up to. I have ninja mom skills. Before they’ve thought about it, I know, mostly because I probably did it when I was their age.

“Shower and find Lola. The grand-parentals will be here in an hour.” I chase the three of them, who seem to be on a go-slow this morning. I follow them upstairs and take a five-minute shower, and pull on a dress because I haven’t got time to find anything else. With my hair in a damp, messy bun, I search for my phone and plug it in on Holly-Anna’s charger since it’s the only one that hasn’t been chewed up. I will face the notifications later in the day when I feel less like death warmed up. At least my dad is going to put up a backyard pen for the fluffing rabbit, because I’m over her being in the house. I can hear the chaos of the kids trying to catch her but choose to ignore it as I down an extra cup of coffee before my parents get here. Lord help me, I might need one more; my body is screaming at me for drinking like I was twenty-one again last night.