Hi. My name is Marge, Large Marge.


I in fact, have never met anybody brandishing the name Marge, or Margie, or Margaret (save for the tarty wife on Big Love) but I have come to a point in my pregnancy in which I have deemed myself “Large Marge.”

I hadn’t really realized just how large I’ve become until this morning when I took this photo.

Whoa, Margie! Better take it easy on the ice cream & brownies. Please pardon the bathroom shot, and the wet hair, and the no makeup, and everything else that is wrong with this photo.

For the record, 20 weeks 5 days.

I keep googling “20 weeks pregnant belly” to compare my baby house to other ladies baby houses. I’m equal parts shocked and relieved that compared to them, I still just look fat. I guess we all grow at different rates and most ladies weren’t *ahem* big boned to begin with.

I told Mark last night, I just really wish I could look pregnant to which he responded, um babe … you really do. Not really sure what to do with myself after basically being told I looked whaleish, I ate another Lil’ Debbie chocolate cupcake. In case you were wondering, pregnant with boy = Large Marge tendency to eat enough sugar to make a diabetic shake in his/her respective boots.

I hadn’t really intended on this post to go on and on and on about how large I’ve become, it was intended to talk about my views on discipling children and the epic failure of most Americans to do so.

When did we as Americans became such giant dueche canoe pushovers? Growing up; I had a healthy dose of fear and love for my Mom. I don’t remember ever being spanked or hit but I knew what would push her buttons and what would keep me out of trouble.

While I respect a parents right to let their children wheel around a several-thousand-square-foot-box-store whilst running into innocent bystanders, playing on a hand held device, screaming at their parents, “but, I don’t want to WALK!” I feel an OVERWHELMING desire to clothesline those motherfuckers while at the same time bitch slapping their “parents” for letting their little crotchfruits out in public.

Children in shopping carts snot faced, hyperventilating, near puking super brat tantrums make me twitch. Equally as bad; when the “parent” either 1.) totally ignores them or 2.) spews some “new age” parental bullshit – “now you know Mommy doesn’t like it when you do that. Mommy wants you to please mind your manners.

To which, more times than not, takes every ounce of my very much already thin restraint to not mumble, shut.the.fuck.up.lady. Your one year old probably doesn’t understand “polite.” He probably only REALLY understands, wipe my ass lady and Yo! Where’s the milk?

In case you missed it in parenting class, blood curtling screaming from a two year old generally means, “Dude, Mom, I respect your need to buy yourself something pretty but put the Juicy pants down and take me the fuck home!”

My apologies to those of you who subscribe to the pussification of America. I honestly wouldn’t care what you do with your brats but let’s get honest, I am so tired of getting run into by your shitheads at Walmart dude. Also, I’m having my own baby, don’t really need to hear yours whilst trying to get my shop on.

What I’m really trying to say is while I’m not really sure what parenting style I am going to go with; I DO know if I become one of THOSE parents, I will strangle myself with my headphones.

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~ by Kendall on January 7, 2010.

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