Turning the mother cheek

Who do I talk to about a hostile work environment? I think I live in one, but somehow I don't think OSHA is going to care, and I'm pretty sure they don't charge toddlers with parental abuse. I remember applying for a job where I'd be working with mentally handicapped adults, and the interviewer casually mentioned that some of the residents could get violent. "Don't be surprised if someone takes a swing at you every once in a while," chuckled the lady across the table. I ran out of there and never looked back. Well, the joke's on me, because now that's my life, and I've got the mother load (maybe that's where the term originated from) of reports to give whoever deals with work-related injuries for domestic homemakers.
Yesterday Jesse threw his noggin back into my jaw and I bit myself, taking out a solid chunk of my inner cheek. I have a minor abrasion above my right brow from the corner of a library book being hurled at my head. I have at least five things dropped on my toes every day, ranging from tv remotes to ceramic bowls to hammers (true story. He dropped a hammer on my toe). And I also currently have claw marks up and down my neck--that's Jesse-talk for "I'm dissatisfied" lately. I don't get paid enough for this, people! Wait...
Anyway, the amazing thing is that most of my injuries are acquired accidentally. I have the most clumsy children on the planet, which actually makes sense now that I think of it. I'm a total klutz. Last month I shut my face in the car door. And last week I hopped off the kitchen counter (don't ask why I was up there in the first place. Long story) and ripped an entire cabinet door off. No joke, my belt loop got caught on the cabinet handle and tore the whole thing off. I wanted be mad at myself, but I was too impressed by the quality of my jeans. At least they'll survive raising my kids, even if I don't.