And put aside my Mommy Duties to write this note. Jad’s feeding can wait. He’ll thank me later when he understands the importance and advantages of restraint when it comes to food (or he’ll just hate me forever, pile up mommy issues and become an overweight psychopath who hates milk and doesn’t know why). 

So Mia has a new hobby: she screams now. When she’s upset. When she’s happy. When she’s hungry. When she’s tired. When whatever. 

It is a hobby like any other, really. Some people enjoy scraping chalkboards with their fingernails. Others prefer skinning cats alive. Mia’s instant gratification is basically to turn us deaf.

The sound of her screams echoes in my skull hours after she’s fell in deep sleep and I remain there, in the dark empty living room, sitting all alone with the voices in my head. Her voices. Her high-pitch wall-piercing voices. 

Today, all of a sudden, while I was taken in the midst of a screaming storm, I actually pictured myself grab Mia with one hand, throw her in the air and smash her with my imaginary racket. The serve of the millennium.

And yet, I have managed to contain this insane urge of violence. How? Well just like when your child punches you right in the nose, grabs your hair and pulls like there’s no tomorrow or pokes your eyes right out of your face.

A magical force prevents you from throwing Little Chuck Norris out the window: it is called LOVE. Or so I’ve been told.