Ann Martin: Mary Anne And Too Many Babies

"I think two will be enough at first. One for us, one for guests."

"Okay . . . two-bedroom apartments. Here's one. The rent is ... oh, my lord, it's two thousand dollars a month!"

"Two thousand?" 1 repeated. "What does the apartment come with? Fourteen bathrooms and a private plane?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's in a really fancy complex. There must be cheaper apartments.

Or maybe two thousand was a misprint. Maybe a zero was added by accident."

But it wasn't a misprint. The rent for the cheapest two-bedroom apartment we saw advertised was eight hundred dollars a month.

"We'd have to earn nine thousand, six hundred dollars a year just to pay our rent," I said. "How much money do you earn each year, Logan?"

Logan estimated how much money he earned baby-sitting and doing odd jobs. I estimated how much money I earned babysitting. We added the figures together. Then we stared at each other with our mouths open.

"We couldn't even pay a month's rent," said Logan.

"Let's look at smaller apartments," I suggested. "We could live in a studio for a few years. That would be okay."

"Only if we found one that rented for, like, thirty cents a month. Remember, we have to buy food and clothes."

"And pay all those bills and taxes and stuff," I added.

Then Logan said, "Just for laughs, let's turn to the ads and see if there are any really big sales at the grocery store."

There were. But we also saw that steak cost a fortune, even on sale. "So we won't eat

meat," said Logan. "It's not good for you anyway."

"I don't think we'll eat much of anything," I replied. "Everything is expensive. Even junk food."

"There's just one solution," said Logan.

"What?"

"We'll have to live at home. We are not financially independent."

"Whose home?" I asked.

"Mine. I'm the husband."

"So what? I'm the wife and there's more room at my house."

"But I don't want to live with your dad. He would watch me all the time."

"Well, I don't want to live with my nine-year-old sister-in-law and my five-year-old brother-in-law. Anyway, I want us to have our own place. I want to hang curtains and paint cupboards."

"I don't think they let you do that if you aren't paying rent," said Logan. "We haven't found one of those thirty-cents-a-month places yet."

I sighed. "I know. But there is more room at my house."

"Yeah. You're right. Okay. We'll live in your bedroom."

Logan and I wrote up our findings. I knew

Logan would be embarrassed to admit in front of the other guys in our class that he'd be living in a girl's bedroom, but that was our only solution. And no matter how silly we found Modern Living, we wanted to do well in the course.

Chapter 4.

The Salems' house was quiet.

"Ricky and Rose are asleep," said their mother. She sounded sort of relieved. Also, she looked sort of tired.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

"Oh, not really. It's just, you know, twins."

That didn't worry me much. Especially considering that the BSC once sat for fourteen children for a week. And that I've baby-sat for Mal's brothers and sisters tons of times and even gone on family vacations with the Pikes, as a mother's helper.

I had arrived at the Salems' house for my afternoon baby-sitting job. School had just ended. I'd gone to my job directly from school. Now I was standing with Mrs. Salem in the kitchen.

"All right," she said. "Let's see. The twins will probably wake up in about half an hour. They'll be hungry then. Their bottles are ready

to go. After they've eaten, you can take them for a walk. The stroller's in the garage. They should probably wear sweaters. The emergency phone numbers are here on the refrigerator ..."

Mrs. Salem is so organized. That's one reason my friends and I like to take care of Ricky and Rose. We haven't had too many opportunities, though. The Salems wouldn't let us baby-sit until the twins reached six months. But now they call us fairly regularly.

Mrs. Salem left for her meeting, and I sat at the kitchen table and began my homework. First I looked over my notes from Modern Living class. We were talking about parenting. I didn't see that it was such a big deal; not for a baby-sitter anyway. If everyone would just take a child care course, they'd be prepared.

I was opening my math book when I heard a noise from the second floor. I paused and listened. Definite cooing. I tiptoed upstairs and stopped at the doorway to the bedroom the babies share. Even from out in the hallway, I could smell that baby smell — powder and wipes and lotion and clean clothes and wet washclothes.

I waited for the sound of tears, but instead I heard only the cooing. The babies were talking to each other; at least, that's how it seemed.

"Hi, Rose. Hi, Ricky," I called softly from the hallway. I entered their room quietly. The twins have reached that touchy "fear-of-strangers" phase, and I didn't want to make them cry.

They didn't. The cooing stopped, though. They sat in their cribs, watching me solemnly and silently.

"Hey, Ricky. It's me, Mary Anne. I've taken care of you a few times now." I crossed the yellow carpet to Ricky's white crib. I just adore the way the Salems decorated the twins' nursery. It's bright and airy. Yellow striped curtains hang at the windows. A small shelf is, already jammed with picture books. A blue wooden chest, decorated with a painting of Winnie-the-Pooh, holds most of their toys. Under the window stands the changing table. Around the middle of the wall runs a colorful frieze of teddy bears and balloons.

I didn't approach Ricky too closely yet. Instead, I stepped over to Rose's crib and whispered to her.

"Want to be ... tickled?" I finally said.

Rose's face cracked into a smile. A few teeth showed. I tickled her toes gently. When she began to giggle, I lifted her from her crib and laid her on the changing table.

A lot of babies do not like to be changed, for some reason. I can't understand that. Per-

sonally, if I were wearing a wet, stinky diaper, I wouldn't even wait for someone else to change it. I'd learn to do it myself.

Rose lay on her back and kicked her feet in the air. She let me remove her diaper, which I dropped in the diaper pail. I know, it sounds old-fashioned. But so what. Mrs. Salem does not put disposable diapers on the babies. She found out how bad they are for the environment, and she switched to cloth diapers, even though she and her husband have to wash loads of laundry almost every day. They never complain about this.

I pinned Rose into a fresh diaper. Then I looked around the room. "I guess I better dress you in a fresh outfit," I said. From the twins' closet I took a pale blue dress, smocked across the front. I slipped it onto Rose, then completed her outfit — frilly socks and dainty blue cloth shoes. She looked like a princess.

Ricky's turn. He also let me change him without fussing. Then I dressed him in a red-and-white sailor suit. "You look very handsome," I told him.

I carried the twins (one at a time) to the kitchen. I found that I had to plan ahead with the babies. Managing them took some work. For instance, to move them to the kitchen, I had to place Rose back in her crib, carry Ricky downstairs, fasten him in his high chair, re-

turn to the bedroom for Rose, then carry her downstairs and fasten her into her high chair. But so what? The babies were as good as gold.

They even gave themselves their bottles. Mr. and Mrs. Salem must have been pretty happy when the babies learned how to hold onto things.

"Ready for a walk, you guys?" I asked.

Ricky smiled at me, and a drop of milk trickled down his chin.

Rose burped, then grinned.

"Charming," I told her, giggling.

I set the twins in their double stroller and walked them down the Salems' driveway. If I do say so myself, they looked awfully cute, sitting side by side, all dressed up, smiling and cooing. I almost wished they were wearing matching outfits so people would know for sure that they were twins, and not just two unrelated babies.