not,” said Mum again.
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Dad. “How was your day, Flo? What did you learn at school?”
I started to tell Dad all about solids and liquids and gases, because that’s what we’ve been doing in Science. Iggy was scowling into her soup, which is a liquid.
“I want one,” she said.
“Well, you can have one of your own,” Mum said. “When you’re older.”
“Yowch!” said Iggy. “I’m not doing that. Not ever.”
Dad and Mum looked at each other and smiled.
“Maybe you’ll change your mind,” said Mum.
“No way,” said Iggy, and she squeezed her eyes tight shut and shook her head.
“Oh well,” said Dad, helping himself to more cauliflower. “No babies for you then. Never mind.”
“Where were we?” Mum said. “What were you saying, Flo?”
“It’s 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.
