Mary Anne + 2 Many Babies

Darn it. Dad and Sharon had overheard us talking again.

  “Yeah. Our … baby sister?” I ventured.

  “No,” said Dad.

  “No way,” said Sharon.

  “Double darn,” I replied.

  Ten people attended the next meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. Seven humans and three infants. (Okay, three eggs.) Sammie, Izzy, and Bobby.

  Bobby was Stacey’s little boy. (Claudia’s child was over at his father’s house.) He lived in a plastic mixing bowl. His father was Austin Bentley, a friend of Stacey’s and Claudia’s. Austin sometimes invites one or the other of them to school dances or to parties, but he isn’t their boyfriend. (A good thing, too, because I think he’d have trouble choosing between them.) The three of them are just regular friends.

  Claud had fixed a sort of nursery in her room. The nursery was an area on her dresser on which sat Sammie in her basket, Izzy in his shoe box environment, and Bobby in his mixing bowl. She had placed pillows on the floor around the dresser in case one of the babies fell off.

  “Why don’t you just put the babies on the floor?” asked Mal practically. “Then they wouldn’t be able to fall.”

  “Too drafty,” Kristy answered.

  “So how are your kids doing?” Jessi inquired politely.

  “Sammie’s fine,” I said, “but Logan —”

  “Order! Come to order, please!” said Kristy.

  (I checked the official club timepiece. Sure enough. Five-thirty.)

  My friends and I straightened up. We adjusted ourselves.

  “Any club business?” our president wanted to know.

  No one answered her. So I said simply, “Logan is hogging Sammie. Lately, he is almost always taking care of her.” Tears welled in my eyes. “This is the first time I’ve brought her home after school since the day I baby-sat for the Tragedy Twins.”

  Stacey giggled. “You mean Ricky and Rose?”

  “Yeah.” I couldn’t even laugh at my own joke.

  The phone rang and Claud picked it up. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club…. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm…. In Karen Brewer’s class? … Oh…. Thursday afternoon? I’ll check and call you right back.” Claud hung up and said, “That was someone named Mr. Gianelli. He said his son is in Karen’s class at Stoneybrook Academy.”

  “Gianelli,” repeated Kristy. “He must be Bobby’s father.”

  “Right,” said Claud. “The Gianellis have two kids, Bobby and his little sister, Alicia. They need a sitter on Thursday afternoon.”

  I looked at the appointment pages in the record book. “You can do it, Stace,” I said. “Want the job?”

  “Sure.”

  Claud phoned Mr. Gianelli back while I scribbled in the BSC record book. I love filling in those blank spaces.

  “I don’t know why you want to spend so much time with an egg,” Stacey said to me. She brushed her hair out of her eye.

  I gasped. “Sammie is my daughter!” I exclaimed.

  Stacey made a face. “Honestly, Mary Anne.”

  “You heard what Mrs. Boyden said.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And I’m doing the project. So’s Austin. We’re very fair and careful. We each take care of Bobby exactly half the time. One day I bring him home, one day Austin brings him home. But what a pain. I don’t think I have time for Modern Living class. Always having to stop and think about feeding Bobby or giving him a bath or something. On Monday I took him shopping with Mom and me. I figured a baby would need new under-shirts and diapers and stuff pretty often. So I lugged the mixing bowl around four baby departments while Mom shopped for fun things, like books and presents. All I saw were baby thermometers and baby minders and baby sneakers and baby toys and baby bottles and baby blankets. Babies sure need a lot of equipment. I never even had a chance to check out clothes for me.”

  “Oh, but buying baby things is fun,” I spoke up. I was thinking about the Kumbel catalog.

  “For five minutes,” said Stacey.

  “Well, anyway, I — I —” (I was trying to think of a nice way to say I didn’t agree with Stacey.) “I guess I don’t mind shopping for baby things. And I still wish Logan wouldn’t hog Sammie.”

  From her place on the floor, Mal tried to hide a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Dawn.

  “Mary Anne keeps saying Logan is hogging Sammie. And ‘hogging’ makes me think of bacon. And Sammie is an egg. Get it? Bacon and eggs?” Mallory snorted with laughter.

  Jessi began to laugh, too.

  But us five older club members remained serious. After a few moments, Claud said, “You guys don’t understand. You aren’t parents yet.”

  Mal and Jessi quieted down.

  We took a few phone calls. Then Kristy got up from the director’s chair, crossed the room to the dresser, and peeked into Izzy’s box. “I think Izzy is getting spoiled,” she said.

  “Too much attention?” I asked.

  “No, I mean I think he’s spoiling. Smell him.”

  Kristy is forever asking me to smell disgusting things. I don’t know why she thinks I’ll do it.

  “No, thanks,” I replied.

  But brave Dawn stood up and sniffed around in the box. “I don’t smell anything,” she said. “You’re making up worries.”

  “I am not,” Kristy replied. However, she sat down again.

  “You guys? What’s being married like?” asked Jessi.

  “Yeah, what’s it like?” echoed Mal.

  “Well,” Stacey began after a moment, “I don’t know what to compare it to. But a lot of it is communicating. With your husband or wife. You have to be able to talk about who’s going to watch the baby when, and who has to remember to do which things with the baby.”

  “And you have to agree on stuff,” added Kristy. “And trust your husband. That’s really important. You have to trust him.”

  “Being married is expensive,” I added.

  “Nobody has said anything about love,” pointed out Jessi.

  The room grew silent.

  “Yeah, aren’t you supposed to be in love?” asked Mal.

  “I guess that would make things easier,” said Stacey slowly. “If I were actually in love with Austin, I’d want to spend more time with him. And I’d want our child to spend more time with us. Maybe being married wouldn’t seem like quite so much work.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “Marriage would still be difficult and expensive. But, boy, if I didn’t love Logan — Um, if I didn’t like him a lot —” (I was blushing.)

  Dawn smiled. “You can say ‘love,’ Mary Anne.”

  “Okay. If I didn’t love him, I could never be married to him and take care of Sammie with him. It’s hard enough when we do love each other…. Oh, I almost forgot. I have to feed —”

  The phone rang. Jessi picked it up. “Logan? Sure, hang on a sec.” Jessi handed the phone to me. “It’s your husband.”

  “Hi, dear,” I said.

  “Hi. Did you feed Sammie?”

  “I was just about to.”

  “Okay. By the way, is Claudia’s room warm enough?”

  “Yes.” Logan reminded me of Kristy and Alan.

  “Maybe you should add a little blanket to the basket.”

  “But it’s almost seventy degrees outside … dear,” I said. “Sammie is fine. Or she will be after I feed her.”

  Logan let me hang up and feed Sammie. Kristy fed Izzy, and Stacey fed Bobby. “You know,” said Kristy, “if we really had to feed babies, we’d have to stop and fix formula. That would take even more time. I think we’re getting off easy.”

  “I still wish Logan would let me take care of Sammie more often,” I said. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t trust me.”

  “Oh, he’s just being overprotective,” said Claud.

  There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

  “Well, I think you guys should just feel lucky that you don’t actually have babies,” said Jessi. “That this is just a school project.”

  “And that it will be over in le
ss than a month,” added Mal. “I remember when my mom was pregnant with Claire. If she had been in school then, she would have had to drop out.”

  “Mallory. She had six other kids to care for,” said Kristy.

  “That’s not what I mean. You don’t know how tired you feel when you’re pregnant. And you’re even tireder after the baby comes. Busier, too.”

  Hmm. I wondered if Sharon could handle her job, as well as being “tireder” and busier than usual. Well, of course she could. Dawn and I would help her whenever she wanted. She would only have to do one third of the usual mothering. Now, if only she and Dad would just come to their senses.

  The Gianellis were new clients of the BSC. None of us had baby-sat for them before the afternoon of Stacey’s job. Kristy knew Bobby slightly because he’s in Karen’s class at school. That was how the Gianellis had heard about the BSC. But basically they were uncharted territory. You know, a new experience.

  Uncharted territories and new experiences make me nervous, but Stacey enjoys a good challenge. She was looking forward to her job at the Gianellis’. She adores meeting people, especially kids.

  Stacey walked straight to the Gianellis’ house after school. She ran up their front steps, stuck her finger out to ring the bell, and realized there was a piece of tape over it. (Over the bell, that is. Not over her finger.) To the left of the bell was a small sign that read, CHILD SLEEPING, PLEASE KNOCK.

  Stacey knocked lightly on the door, and it was opened by this tall guy with a mustache. “Hi, I’m Mr. Gianelli,” he whispered.

  “I’m Stacey McGill,” Stacey replied.

  Mr. Gianelli ushered Stace inside, quietly explaining that Mrs. Gianelli was at work, Alicia was napping, and Bobby had not yet come home from school. “He takes the bus,” said Mr. Gianelli in explanation. Then he noticed Stacey’s mixing bowl. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Stacey began to tell him about Mrs. Boyden and Modern Living, but Mr. Gianelli interrupted her. “Ah, the egg project,” he said. “I know it well. I used to be a teacher. Good luck.”

  He gave Stacey some instructions, showed her where important things (like the first-aid kit) were kept, handed her a list of emergency phone numbers, then left to go to a meeting in Stamford.

  Stacey sat at the kitchen table and waited for Bobby to come home or for Alicia to wake up. While she waited, she talked to her own Bobby, the one in the plastic mixing bowl.

  “Pretend I’m feeding you,” she said wearily to the egg. “By the way, you’re going over to your father’s house tonight instead of tomorrow. I can’t take care of you tonight. I’m way behind in everything, thanks to —”

  “Are you the baby-sitter?” asked a sleepy voice.

  Stacey snapped her head around. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the kitchen. Standing a few feet away, apparently keeping her distance, was a dark-haired, dark-eyed little girl with olive skin. She looked curiously from Stacey to the mixing bowl and back to Stacey.

  “Hi!” Stacey said brightly. “Yes, I’m your sitter. My name is Stacey. Stacey McGill. I guess you’re Alicia.”

  The girl nodded. Then she held up four fingers. “I’m this many,” she added.

  “I bet you just had your birthday.”

  Alicia nodded again. “What’s in the bowl?” she asked. “What are you talking to?” She stepped closer to Stacey.

  Stacey grinned. “I think you’ll be surprised. Want to see?”

  “Okay.” Alicia peered into the bowl.

  Stacey pulled back the washcloths. There was Bobby.

  “Aughhh!” shrieked Alicia. She burst into tears.

  “What’s the matter?” exclaimed Stacey.

  “I don’t like that thing! Why do you have it with you?”

  Stacey paused, trying to figure out what to tell Alicia. Before she had a chance to speak, the front door opened, then closed. “Bobby!” cried Alicia.

  Bobby Gianelli hurtled himself into the kitchen and flung his knapsack on the floor. “I’m home!” he announced. “Hi, Alicia. Hi, baby-sitter.”

  Alicia was still crying. “Bobby, look in that bowl,” she said, pointing.

  Bobby took a look at Bobby. “Weird,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk. “Whose is it?”

  “It’s mine,” Stacey answered. And then she did explain about the Modern Living project. “And you’ll never guess what,” she said finally.

  “What?” asked Bobby. He and Alicia were seated at the table, facing Stacey. They looked at her seriously.

  “His name is Bobby.”

  “That egg’s name is Bobby?” said Bobby.

  Stacey nodded. “Well, remember, I’m supposed to pretend it’s my kid, not just an egg. And if he were my kid, I would have named him.”

  “Right,” said Bobby. He set his empty glass in the sink.

  “So, Bobby, what do you want to do today?” asked Stacey.

  Bobby opened a cupboard and looked inside. He closed the cupboard. Then he knelt down and opened his knapsack.

  “Bobby?” said Stacey again. (No answer.) “Bobby?”

  “Are you talking to me?” asked Bobby. (Stacey nodded.) “Oh, sorry. I thought you were talking to your egg. What do I want to do today? I don’t know. Play football, I guess, if the other kids will play. I better change into my uniform.” Bobby left the kitchen. From halfway up the stairs to the second floor he called, “Can I bring Bobby with me?”

  “You are Bobby!” replied Alicia.

  “I think he means this Bobby,” Stacey said, tapping the mixing bowl. “I’ll see!” she called back. (She was thinking, No way.)

  “Oh, good. Let Bobby take that egg,” said Alicia, who was sitting as far from the bowl as possible, her eyebrows knitted.

  “Don’t you like Bobby?” asked Stacey.

  “He’s my brother!” replied Alicia.

  “I mean the egg. Are you afraid of Bobby the egg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you afraid of all eggs?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you afraid of Bobby?”

  “I’m not. He’s my —”

  “Bobby the egg!”

  “I never saw an egg in bed before.”

  “Pretend he’s a baby, not an egg.”

  At that moment, Bobby the boy returned to the kitchen in his football uniform, which turned out to be a sweat shirt, a pair of jeans, and a bicycle helmet. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said. “Is the egg?”

  “Is Bobby,” Alicia corrected him.

  “What?” said Bobby.

  “What?” said Stacey.

  “Never mind,” said Alicia.

  “I’m ready to play football with the egg,” said Bobby.

  Yikes, thought Stacey. “Bobby,” she said, “I have to take care of the egg. He belongs to me. Do you understand?”

  “Sort of.” Bobby left then, saying he would be across the street.

  “Okay, Alicia, what do you want to do?” asked Stacey.

  “Walk to the brook. But not with Bobby.”

  Stacey sighed. Then she saw that Alicia was truly frightened, so she called Austin Bentley and asked him to come pick up Bobby early. Luckily, he was at home. Later, after he and Bobby had left, Stacey and Alicia walked down the street to the little brook. Alicia sat on a sunny rock and tossed pebbles into the water. Stacey sat in a patch of dry grass and thought. What if Bobby had been her real child and she had had no husband to call on for help? she wondered. What did you do if you were a single parent and you were at work and your child got sick and the nurse called and said he should go home from school? What if you couldn’t leave your job? Or what if you were at home and something happened to you and you simply needed help?

  “I bet my mom is scared sometimes,” Stacey said over the phone to me that night. “I bet she wonders about the ‘what ifs.’ Like what if she got a job and she was at work and I was at school and I went into a diabetic coma? Or what if something happened to Mom and no one could get in touch with my dad? I b
et Mom worries a lot, Mary Anne.”

  “I think all parents do,” I replied.

  “But they probably feel a little safer if they aren’t single parents.”

  “Mm. Maybe. Stace? Are you worried because you’re the daughter of a divorced mom? And your dad doesn’t live nearby? That would be okay. I used to worry more when my dad was single.”

  “Yeah. I worry sometimes.” Stacey paused. “You know, this afternoon was kind of funny with the two Bobbies, and Alicia afraid of the egg and everything. But I decided something. I am going to wait until I’m really old before I have a human baby.”

  Ever since we had our baby, Logan and I had spent very little time alone together. We hadn’t been out — just the two of us — in ages. How many places can you easily take an infant to? I guess we could have taken Sammie to Pizza Express or the diner or the coffee shop, but it just didn’t seem like a great idea. Anyway, Logan and I would have been busy feeding Sammie, holding her, and doing all those things you have to do to occupy an infant, and that would have sort of defeated the purpose.

  But one Friday, at the end of Modern Living class, Logan said to me, “Mary Anne, I’d really like for us to go out tonight. I hate to leave Sammie behind, but … I don’t know. I just want to go to a movie or something.”

  Considering how attached Logan had become to our daughter, this seemed like an especially nice idea. I think he was taking our class project a little more seriously than anyone, except maybe Alan and Kristy. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought he cared more about Sammie than he did about me. So a movie sounded like a terrific idea, and I told him so. “Oh, Logan, awesome!” I exclaimed. “I can’t wait. And don’t worry about Sammie. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Great. I’ll come to your house at six-thirty.”

  * * *

  Ding-dong.

  That evening, our doorbell rang promptly at six-thirty. Dad and Sharon were upstairs getting ready to go out to dinner. Dawn was baby-sitting for Haley and Matt Braddock.

  I was standing at the front door holding Sammie in her basket.

  When I let Logan inside, the first words out of his mouth were, “What’s Sammie doing?” He took the basket from me.