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Oh shit. I am a mom Oh shit. I am a mom
by Katerina Charisi
2019-10-20 09:13:04
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Friday afternoon and I’m already 5 minutes late for school. I shove the baby under my pit munching cookies and I’m dashing the stairs to pick up the eldest. In the kitchen, half-cooked meal, I’ll get back on it later. I don’t have time at the moment. Under my front door there are 45 pizza flyers. From the same pizza place.

I have a slight feeling that somewhere near my house the delivery boy bores to continue his job and gets rid of them damn flyers under my door. I open the door, I get out, I’m flying. On my way to school I’m thinking about calling the pizza place and tell them that every Friday I find 45 flyers of theirs under my door but then again, who am I to cause another fellow human to lose their job?

mothr1_400Landing at school, getting the kid, back home. I have to finish cooking, feed them, screw them to bed. Oh, dear Friday, lord of the weeks. I’m going to stay up late watching the Kardashians and eating all the stuff I hide in the far back of my closet so the kids won’t see. Peace on Saturday morning, the kids snoring till 9 am, without alarms and get the hell up, goddamit, we’re gonna be late for school again.

Later that evening, around 8pm. My husband comes home and waves an envelope before my nose.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

“A bill, what else?”

“Does the mailman come in the evenings? When I got out for school earlier there was nothing there.”

“It was under a pile of pizza flyers.”

Oh, you little piece of crap for a delivery boy. I’m going to make that phone call after all and you’re going to get yourself unemployed for quite a while.

“The 45 flyers?

“Did you count them?”

“Forget it.”

I open the envelope, a phone bill. Expired ten days ago.

“Shit. Go, go, go! You have to go and pay it.”

“But I just came home from work!” he cries.

“We’re going to spend the weekend without internet if you don’t.”

“Nah, they wouldn’t do that, it’s Friday night!”

Ten thirty, the kids bounce on the walls; I send them to bed AT LAST. Movie time with that new thingy they call “streaming”, no need to download and stuff. Two large bowls of chips, Oreos, chocolate peanuts and the rest of the crap I forbid my kids to eat, lecturing them about how their liver will turn black and dry as a dead rat and how they’ll toss it in the loo, while they’re going to swallow their rotten teeth in their sleep.

Almost midnight! The movie’s about to end and suddenly the streaming thingy stops and the little circle on the screen keeps turning and turning and nothing happens.

“I told you that would happen.”

“No way! Friday night? Midnight? Who’s there anyway to shut down people’s internet at midnight?”

“Call your mother.”

“My mother? Why?”

“Because if we still have an active line I don’t want to cause my mother a heart attack for calling her so late.”

We look at each other.

“I’m not calling my mother.”

“Then call your boss.”


“Just call someone, goddamit”.

He makes a call. The line is dead.

We look at each other. I raise a brow, he lowers his ears.

“Oh well… I guess they, um… You know. Oh, let’s wait until Monday. What do you want us to do now?”

“I am going to sleep. In MY bed.”

“Your bed?”

“My bed.”

“What about me?”

“On the couch.”

“But why, what did I do?” he cries.

“I told you to go and pay the bloody thing.”


“Shut it.”

Saturday morning.

“Give me some cash.”

“What for, now?”

“To get a dog leash.”

“A dog leash? We ain’t got a dog.”

“We have kids.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Give me the cash, damn it!”

“Okay, okay”, he hands me a 20.

“And for the phone bill.”

He exhales, I raise a brow, he swallows the air, he gives another 20.

“And for coffee.”

He hands me another 5 euro bill.

I go to the children’s room.

“Get up, goddamit, we’re going to be late.”

“I don’t want to go to school!”, the little one.

“You don’t go to school. Now get up, both of you.”


Half an hour later, the baby under the pit, the eldest by hand, both eating chocolate. First stop: Pet Shop.

“Hello, I want a dog leash, please.”

“Ok, what kind of dog?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You… don’t know what kind of dog you have?”

“I don’t have a dog.”


We look at each other. I’m tapping my foot on the floor, I raise my brow. My hair’s a mess. I didn’t even put proper clothes to leave the house. I’m guessing I look like a lunatic and that’s my point. He smiles, I smile.

“Okay”, he says. “Let’s say, that you have a dog. So, if we supposedly say that you have a dog, what kind of dog would it be? For example, a big one, or a smaller one?”

I look at my son. He looks at me looking at my son.

“Around 6 years old”, I say.

We look at each other for another little while. I know that he dies to call somewhere that someone will wrap me around a white shirt.

“Not too big, not too small”, I say this time.

He gets me the leash, I pay, I leave. I look over my shoulder and I see him picking up the phone. I send a deadly look, he drops the phone, he whistles to the parrot.


Next stop: This and That - Phone company.

We stand outside, I get the leash from my purse.

“Put it on”, I ask my eldest.

“What for?”

“You’re pretending to be a pit-bull.”

“Do I have to bark, too?”

“And bite, if you have to.”

He laughs and puts the leash under his armpits. The baby still under my armpit, the sugar started affecting both of their nervous systems by now. The baby keeps twisting and pushing and screaming put me down, put me down, I wanna walk, put me down! The eldest grunts and tries to bark, EVERYONE’S staring but I don’t give a damn. I’m going to pay that damn bill and they’re going to get me back my internet.

“Hello, I want to pay my 10-days-ago-expired bill that you sent me yesterday.”

The cashier stares at me. Young, curly red hair, purple eye, long, shiny fingernails, flat stomach. You little bitch, I mumble. You’ll get pregnant some day, won’t you? I stare at myself on the mirror wall behind her. Greasy hair, bitten fingernails, pool bags under my eyes, bushy brows, Michelen’s stomach, chocolate messed shirt. I didn’t even have a coffee before I get out of the house. I’m ready to kill.

“Well, the delay is the post office’s fault”, she whispers.

I hand her the money.

“Oh, it’s Saturday”, she sings and smiles shyly.

“I know.”

“We, um, we don’t accept bills on Saturdays, you’re going to have to come back on Monday and-“


“B-bb-but the system-“


The baby squeals, the boy barks and she cries.

“B-but please, I can’t, I-“

“You’re getting the money now, and I’m getting my internet back now, otherwise the dog’s gonna snap your liver and slit your throat.”

“Oh, my goodness, WHAT dog?” she yells and jumps on a chair.

“The boy!”

“Oh, dear lord, the lady lost it!”

She taps her keyboard, she breaks a nail, the mascara’s running down her cheeks, I almost feel sorry about her but hey, I only want to pay a damn bill here. She gets the money, she hands me the receipt. I call home.

“Is it there yet?”


“The internet goddamit.”

“Oh. Oh yes.”


It’s time to smile.

“Thank you very much miss and goodbye.”

We go outside. The kids ask “where are we going now?”

“Let’s get you two to the park.”


I toss the leash to the trash.

“Can we buy a juice, too?”

“Sure. And a cup coffee for mommy at last.”

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