ONE MINUTE I was asleep and the next a bottle hit me over the head. Luckily it wasn’t glass. But the contents of my baby’s half-drunk milk dripped down my face, making sure I was suddenly wide awake.
‘Don’t use me as target practice,’ I muttered, peering at the clock. 5.30am. Oh great. Another early morning in the Pasquali Jones household, thanks to Anais.
She was shrieking by now, desperate to leave the confines of her cot at the bottom of our bed. ‘Time for you to move into your own room,’ I decided. ‘And to start anger management classes.’
To say my little girl’s violent is an under statement. Most days she pulls my hair until my scalp burns. She has her six-year-old brother in tears with her headbutts.
And she can throw anything – no matter how heavy – at least six feet, and has an uncanny ability to always hit the target, even if it’s moving.
I’ve turned up at nursery with scratches, bruises and, once, even a fat and bloody lip. I’ve caught the sympathetic looks from the other mums. I could tell what they were thinking: ‘Poor woman. She’s obviously been beaten up by her husband. Why doesn’t she leave him?’
I don’t say anything. I mean who’s going to believe the only punches or slaps I’ve ever received were from my little baby? But I might have to start a help group for battered mums – or learn to duck quicker.
My son used to pull my hair all the time when he was little. Then he started plaiting it. Go figure!
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