Free Life After Coffee by Virginia Franken

when you touch my body.” That’s had us cross at least one local park off the list.
    “I’m not touching your stinky body. I’m not doing anything,” says Billy. He’s as tired of the whole thing as the rest of us. Violet lets out a killer scream. This close to her “body,” it’s so shrill it’s like someone just plunged a scalpel into my ear. I turn around in my seat and catch Billy red-handed squeezing Violet’s arm.
    “STOP TOUCHING HER BODY!” I yell at both my children in cold fury.
    Can’t we even drive the six blocks to school peacefully without emergency intervention? Some reptilian sense in the back of my brain tingles. I swing around to face front just in time to slam on the breaks for the stop sign as a car whizzes past us on the road ahead. If I’d allowed myself to be distracted by my children for just another half a second, that would have been a head-on collision. It’s then that I really lose my cool. I don’t remember what I say. I think I do refer to the fact that their arguing nearly caused the death of all of us and maybe that might not be such a bad thing. Billy stares back at me red-faced, crying. Violet just gets that glazed-over look she has whenever she’s being told off.
    I’m a monster.
    We drive the last two blocks in the silence that I’ve been craving. By the time we get to school, both children seem to have recovered completely from my outburst. We pull up in the front. We’re ever so slightly early, so the lot is deserted. If I can quickly run in and out again, I should be able to safely leave Violet in the car without anyone calling social services. The buckle on her car seat is so frickin’ stiff, I nearly puncture my skin with my thumb bone every time I try to undo it. I’m already feeling weaker than normal because of my bout of insomnia last night. It’s no more than sixty-nine degrees outside. She can stay in the car.
    “Billy, out of the car. Violet, I’ll be back in two minutes.” She’s singing herself a made-up song about a pair of fabulous red shoes worn by a happy pony, and it’s so all-consuming she doesn’t even notice when I close the car door. Billy and I head through the gates.
    “Mommy, if you live in Chinatown, can you still speak Spanish?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “But why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why would you speak Spanish if you lived in Chinatown?”
    “Maybe because you were from Spain.”
    “But then why would you be living in Chinatown?”
    “I don’t know, Billy.”
    “Can you speak Spanish, Mommy?”
    “Yes, sweetie.”
    “Have you been to Chinatown?”
    “I have.”
    “Have you been to Spain?”
    “I have not.”
    “Why not?”
    Oh my God. And it goes on. Round and round in circles. Maybe he’ll be a prosecutor when he grows up. He’ll get people on the stand to fold purely because they’d rather take the jail time than keep trying to answer his endless, pointless questions. Questions. I thought that was going to be one of the best things about parenting: telling my kids about the world we live in, from my own wise point of view. Didn’t work out that way. Maybe I’d be more into it if the questions made any sense or had actual answers. For example: “Where does rain come from?” or “Can you tell us about the carbon cycle, Mommy?” I’d be all over that. Instead, it’s all: “What does five minutes look like?” and “If it’s sunny in heaven, will I have to wear sunscreen?”
    The minute I walk into Billy’s school room, I remember. It’s Flag Day. All the kids are supposed to dress in colors of the flag that represents their heritage and I was supposed to bring in, like, twenty-four party favors. Billy was meant to dress in blue and yellow to represent my Swedish background, but he’s wearing a dirty fluorescent-orange Nike T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Quick as a whip I pull out my phone and Google “blue and orange flag color.”
    “Hey, Billy. Hey, Mrs. O’Hara,” says his teacher.