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PERFECT LITTLE ANGELS Carla Caruso, romantic comedy author Alessio stands looking at me amid the playroom, his hazel eyes wide, the picture of innocence. ‘Mum … door!’ It’s Saturday morning and I’ve only just dragged myself out of bed and into my usual home wear—a tracksuit (not the Juicy Couture kind, but an ultra-daggy one). Alessio and his two-year-old twin, Sebastian, meanwhile, have been up since five a.m, their new waking time and a middle finger to daylight saving not starting yet. Predawn, my bleary-eyed husband, James—bless him— changed their nappies and outfitted them, deposited them in the playroom with their toys and the TV, and staggered back to bed for another hour or two of shuteye. I should have known it’d been too quiet. Behind Alessio, the door to our home office, which we firmly shut every night, is now ajar. And there’s a little wooden chair alongside of it—just the right height for a two-year-old to stand on and turn the door handle. ‘Oh no,’ I whisper to myself, barging past Alessio. I fully push open the door and grind to a halt, the air hissing out of my lungs. If I hadn’t had twin boys wrestling inside of me for nine-and-a-half months and knew we had anything pristine (and, hence, valuable) left, I would have thought we’d been burgled. The office is a disaster zone. Important documents spill out of desk drawers, my husband’s camera bags (he’s a photographer) are all unzipped and in disarray, receipts litter the carpet like 54

oversized confetti, picture frames hang askew … and Sebastian cheerfully plays in a corner with his dad’s prized model cars. Seb shoots me an impish grin, though I know this can only be the handiwork of two. ‘James!’ I yell, because sharing the nightmare will somehow halve the pain. Even more so if the incident’s shared on Facebook. ‘You won’t believe this.’ My husband stumbles in, wiping the sleep from his eyes and mutters darkly under his breath. I didn’t realise he knew French. ‘Think we’ll make that trip to IKEA this morning,’ I clip. ‘We’ll be needing a few replacements.’ Because some days you’ve just got to get out of the house and let the kids go feral elsewhere. A few hours later, we’re at the busy furniture-chain store, slightly delayed by James having trouble locating his credit cards amid the office chaos (which has since been tamed). We’ve bought a gazillion knickknacks we didn’t know we needed, the boys (James included) have eaten more meatballs than a competitive eating champion, and I’m now hovering alongside the indoor playground as the boys excitedly test out the monkey bars and tunnels. The hubs, meanwhile, has ducked off to the loo— Hang on a sec. A grubby little hand has popped out from inside a yellow tunnel and is now reaching to swat Sebastian on the cheek. In case I missed it, the hand makes contact again. Sebastian’s smile promptly turns upside down.

Kid Magazine Issue Twenty Five  

For mums who like style, pretty things and looking after themselves and their families. Go behind the blog with Chantelle from Fat Mum Slim...

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