The exception to the rule

"Not really," I say, swaying Murphy as he moans, mostly to break up his unpleasant bouquet. "He'll nod off," I tell her. "But as soon as he senses me relaxing, he fires up and screams like I just chopped off his finger. You know how it is."

"Wow," she says, adjusting the almost-sleeping Kodi in her arms. "No biggie," I chirp. "I just have to stay tense and he's happy."

Murphy's foot jabs the air and an odor rises from him that could kill small insects. I move a couple of feet downwind. Mako moves closer. "Have you tried rocking him?" she asks. "Oh, yes," I respond. Have I tried rocking him? Does she think I'm a total idiot? "Hmm," she says, as if this is some puzzle to solve. "Have you tried humming?" "Humming. Yes," I say. "And he still won't go down?" "Not with rocking and humming," I assure her. "Hmm," she says. "Have you tried rocking and humming in a dimly lit room?" Not with the baby, I want to say. Only by myself - after a day of screaming, a few cocktails, and a hysterical call to my mother. "I think Murphy knows it's a trick," I reply. "He's incredibly intuitive." "I guess that's possible," she says, sniffing the air. I move again. Mako follows. "Are you still breastfeeding?" she asks. "Mostly," I say. "I use formula whenever my nipples feel like they've been stapled." "That's it," says Mako. "That's why he's farting like that. It's the formula." She turns and walks away, quiet Kodi nestled on her shoulder.

Maybe the gas is connected to the screaming. Maybe Murph is in tremendous gastrointestinal pain. I stop formula. I give him Mylicon drops. I change my diet. I rock him, bounce him, sing to him. Nothing works. He rarely sleeps, and when he's awake, he's screaming, moaning, or making a cranky-old-man sound.

Murphy wails on my shoulder as I pick up a package at the office of our building. The building manager is a grandmotherly woman named Boo - and she's a kid magnet. Around Boo, stoned smiles spread across babies' faces like they're mainlining. Everyone's baby but mine. "Does he always do that?" Boo asks. "Scream?" I ask. "Yes. That," she says. "It sounds like something's wrong." "Not that I can tell," I respond. She hands me the clipboard I have to sign to get my package. "Maybe he's hungry," she says. "Just fed him," I say, signing my name. "Have you tried rocking him?" "Yup," I say, adding, "Spence was a screamer and he turned out fine." "No one gets two screamers," she says. "Guess I'm the exception to the rule," I counter.

I'm aware that I've begun to sound defensive, but I can't help myself. Then something in me switches. "Turns out there are some new studies coming out of Johns Hopkins," I say. "Johns Hopkins? Where did I get that? "Babies who scream early are significantly brighter, and seem to be immune to certain cancers." Boo's eyes widen. "Really?" "Something to do with all that extra oxygen getting to the brain." Boo stares at Murphy, who passes gas and wiggles, his wailing dialed down to a soft moan. "I had one screamer and he's my smartest," she says, her gaze contemplative. "I'm not surprised," I say.

I see gurgling, quiet babies everywhere - peaceful, pink-cheeked cherubs, smiling as they lie in their moms' arms, in strollers, on blankets on the grass. I marvel at these beings who bear no resemblance to the creature I wheel around, his howling so loud as to seem an agonized plea to be released from his earthly existence. Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome, but I'm starting to prefer my screamer. Those passive, bland babies, I think to myself - who needs 'em? All they do is lie there. I've got a lusty, full-voiced maniac who lets me know just how he's feeling every second of every day. Aren't I lucky?

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