Now, I know enough Spanish to know who the telemarketers are calling for. They call for my and The Hubbin all the time. But, I was a little shocked that they were already calling for my son. How did they get his name?

I politely informed the caller, “he doesn’t speak Spanish.” That usually sends them away. Not this time. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said “may I please speak to Mr. (The Oldest)?” I peaked into the living room in time to see his Sponge Bob underwear get snagged by the handle of the rocking horse as he ran by. The ricochet effect threw him to the floor and his baby brother immediately belly flopped onto his head. “Alright,” I said. “Telephone,” I held the phone to The Oldest and he looked at me with a mixture of fear and awe. In all fairness, he had a reason to be concerned about the phone in my hand. I’ve been promising for years to call Santa…and the police. “It’s for you,” I told him and snuck into the kitchen to the extension.

Needless to say, it didn’t go as well as the caller had hoped. My son didn’t quite get the low APR and cash back on certain purchases offer.  The dud eventually hung up and The Oldest is back to the “Do Your Chores and Save Your Money” plan for making new purchases. Is it wrong for me to have denied him his 1st credit card offer?  Especially now, when his credit rating is the best it will ever be.  He does have Plan B- as in Beg Mommy and Daddy until they give in.

You can’t wash the cat in the toilet

You can’t spread butter with a stick

You can’t cut through the screen on your bedroom window just to beat your brother to the swing

Don’t handcuff the dog

That should get us through the next week or so.  I hope

Am I a disgruntled mom?  I can say that I am 100%, definitely, entirely, kind of, a little bit disgruntled…I think.

What is disgruntled?  The definition I have of disgruntled is, “one who is angry or dissatisfied.”  Based on that–yes- I am disgruntled.  I should clarify though that I’m not “angry or dissatisfied” with being a mom or with my kids.  That’s just my general state of being.  I’ve never been one of those people who are naturally chipper and exuberant.   I had rose colored glasses once; I traded them for a pack of cigarettes.

My being disgruntled has more to do with having a humorous disgust with things that happen in my life now.  My younger, cooler self (YCS) would be horrified if she could look at what her life will be like.  There are no more random, last minute cross-country road trips to catch Metallica in concert.  No more Trans Ams with T-tops and kick-ass Pioneer stereos.  No more trying to decide whether a shopping spree or rent should come out of this pay check.  Nope, my life is full of responsibility now.  I gave up fighting, I gave up cigarettes, I even gave up the f-word.  Now I’m responsible for shaping impressionable young minds and enlightening them with the lessons that will allow them to be productive members of society.  It isn’t easy.  My YCS would never have thought that she’d one day have to actually tell someone, “you are not allowed to pee on your brother!”

Sometimes I wish I was like the warm, happy, approachable mothers I see all around me.  The kind who join mommy support groups and trade recipes and scrapbooking tips.  The fact is, I don’t fit in and I’m fine with that.  I view the world from a slightly skewed perspective.  But I know I’m not alone.  There are other moms out there who don’t fit the mold.  And if I had a drink, I’d raise a toast to you.