Iggy and Me and the New Baby. Jenny Valentine

not fair,” said Iggy, interrupting again, before I could even get started.

      Not fair is Iggy’s explanation for a lot of things.

      When Mum says no to sweets, it’s not fair.

      When Iggy has to go to bed half an hour before me, it’s not fair.

      When we have rice and broccoli with our supper and Iggy wants chips and beans, it’s not fair.

      When Iggy decides we should go swimming and to the zoo and out for pizza and we don’t because it’s only a Wednesday and not anybody’s birthday, it’s not fair.

      “Here we go,” said Dad, and he rolled his eyes and winked at me.

      “But I really want a little brother or sister,” she moaned. “And it really isn’t fair.”

      Dad said, “Flo’s got a little sister, haven’t you?”

      “Yep,” I said.

      “How’s that working out for you?” said Dad.

      “So far so good,” I said.

      “See.” Iggy pointed at me. “Flo’s got one. It’s so not fair.”

      Mum stood up and cleared our plates away.

      “Life isn’t fair, Iggy,” she said.

      Iggy sighed and slumped forward with her forehead on the table. Her voice came out all squished and mumbly.

      “I’ve noticed,” she said.

      In the playground at school, all Iggy could think about and talk about was babies.

      She said, “Flo, what do babies smell like?” and “Why do some babies look like old men?” and “How many babies is it possible to have?”

      “I don’t know,” I said.

      “How many days does it take to grow a baby?” and “Do babies have teeth?” and “Do all babies like mashed banana?”

      “Iggy,” I said, “I don’t know.”

      “Well, who does?” Iggy looked around the playground. “I need to find out.”

      “Why don’t you ask James Wilkes?” I said. “He’s got lots of baby brothers and sisters. He’s probably an expert.”

      “Will you ask him?” Iggy said. “He’s your friend.”

      “You’re the one who wants to know,” I said, “but I’ll come with you.”

      So Iggy took me to find James Wilkes and quiz him about babies.

      “What are they like?” Iggy said.

      “Smelly,” said James Wilkes.

      “What else?”

      James Wilkes shrugged. “Noisy.”

      “What else?”

      “Hungry.”

      James Wilkes wasn’t nearly as interested in babies as Iggy. James Wilkes wanted to play football. James Wilkes always wants to play football.

      “What else?” Iggy said. “Please tell me. It’s very important.”

      “Loud,” said James Wilkes. “Smelly and noisy and hungry and loud,” and then he ran after a ball that bounced just past his feet.

      “James Wilkes isn’t an expert,” Iggy told me. “He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t even care. How can he not care?”

      “Maybe he does,” I said. “Maybe he’s just had enough of babies right now.”

      Iggy shrugged her shoulders high with disbelief. “How is that even possible?”

      At home, all Iggy could think about and talk about was babies.

      “Pleeease have one more,” she begged. “Just one.”

      “I’m too old,” said Mum.

      “Are you?” I said.

      “Actually, no,” Mum said. “Not exactly. I’m too tired.”

      Dad nodded. “Babies are exhausting. They are a lot of work.”

      “We’ll help you,” Iggy said.

      “Not enough,” said Dad.

      “Oh please,” Iggy said. “Just. One. Tiny. Baby,” and she put her hands a bit apart to show just how tiny it might be.

      “Sorry.” Mum shook her head. “Just thinking about it is making me tired.”

      Iggy put her arms out from her sides, like a teapot with two spouts. She said, “What’s so exhausting about a weeny little baby?”

      “Babies keep you awake at night,” Mum said. “They are very demanding.”

      “Babies get cross about nothing for hours at a time,” Dad said.

      “They need constant care and attention.”

      “They are always shouting and they are always pooing and they are always hungry.”

      “You two sound like James Wilkes,” Iggy said.

      “Who’s that?” Dad asked.

      “An expert on babies,” I told him.

      Iggy glared at all of us.

      “Iggy we are not having another baby,” Mum and Dad told her, at the same time. “Absolutely not.”

      The next week after school, we were having milk and biscuits, and Mum said, “I saw Mrs Wilkes on the high street today.”

      Iggy had been jabbering away like normal, swinging her legs and talking at a hundred miles an hour about crayons and guinea pigs and skipping, but suddenly she went a bit quiet.

      “Did you?” I said.

      “Yes,” Mum said. “And we had a nice chat.”

      Iggy slipped down lower in her chair and her legs stopped swinging.

      “What about?” I asked Mum.

      “Oh, this and that.”

      I took a big gulp of milk. Iggy was holding her breath. I could hear her not breathing.

      “We talked about babies,” Mum said.

      “That’s nice,” I said.

      “Mrs Wilkes wanted to know where my baby was.”

      Iggy’s eyes were perfect round circles and her mouth was a silent straight line.

      “What baby?” I asked Mum.

      “That’s what I said.”

      Iggy made a little groaning noise. It just squeezed out of her. Her cheeks went very pink and she stared very hard at her biscuit.