Do I Subconciously Hate My Child?

I stumbled across a zany Sleep Talking blog out of England that was so fun and edgy and wonderful that I was tempted to walk out on Mr. Sampa, slay this Adam fellow’s blogger wifey, and take him for my own. What damsel wouldn’t be swept off her feet by the mid-night murmur, “Dogs’ scrotums. They stretch.”

He had me at scrotum.

But it got me wondering… If this man is churning out the comic gold in the depths of the night, what kind of witticisms would a brilliant, funny, gorgeous woman like myself come up with? And so the Great Sampa Family Sleep Talking Experiment (GSFSTE) began.

And ended. Very quickly.

Night one produced nothing except for the alarming realization that I am not quite as delicate a sleeper as I imagined (was that a snort?!). But I awoke after the second night of the GSFSTE to Mr. Sampa’s accusatory stare from the edge of our queen bed listening to the sleep log, rewinding it, and then listening again.

Apparently, I hate little Sampa Jr. Apparently, I hate him very, very much.

Choice Remarks from the GSFSTE

Stop picking your nose! You disgust me.

No! No! You are a terrible child! No!

Ponies are expensive. Even if they were cheap, you would never get one.

You are the worst thing to come out of my body. You are worse than the vomit I vomited on New Years.

Why, Sampa Jr.? It’s because I don’t love you.

Why can’t you be more like the parrot?

If I thought you antics were cute, I would hug you more.

Leave me alone. Always. Leave me alone.

So…Do I Really Hate My Child?

I have decided that no, I do not hate my child no mater what hard evidence the GSFSTE produced. I take it as a testament to my saint-like patience that I tolerate adore my rambunctious child during all waking moments, and release any potential wrath in the safety of my sleep-nest.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

As it is, though, the tape has been destroyed. And the GSFSTE has been brought to a quick and neat finish. I’ll leave the funny-guy stuff to the Brits.