A few deaf men

They don't care that the baby is crying.

"Who?" you ask.

My boys--namely, my husband and my son.

Ninna is screaming and crying, ...crying and screaming.

They don't cringe, their heart rates don't sky rocket, they don't breathe faster, they don't shift in their seats, NOR do they press on the invisible gas pedal on the passenger side of the car so we can get-there-get-there-get-there and pick up the baby so she STOPS CRYING.

They don't seem to hear it.

I look over at my Doodle, who seems to be driving *just* under the speed limit; seems to be slowing down at green lights in anticipation of those lights turning yellow; seems to be totally engrossed in the conversation we're trying to have over the screaming child. He seems not to hear. the. screaming.

I glance back at my son in his car seat, legs dangling just shy of Doodle's seat. He's barely three feet away from the crying baby girl, flailing in her own car seat. But he is placidly looking out the window, holding his stuffed lamb. When he feels my gaze, his eyes shift to meet mine. Now that he has my brief attention, he points to the ribbon on his stuffed friend.

"Bwoo!" he states, showing me he knows the color of the ribbon.

"Great job!" my husband responds, as I shake my head in wonderment. "And tell Mama what color your hat is," my husband continues to encourage him.

"Bwoo!" Tigger shouts now, proud of his word.

"That's right!" my husband crows.

"Very good!" I say enthusiastically, hoping my smile masks the wince on my face. Because I can hear the crying. Screaming. Hunger? Gas? Pain? She needs me. How can they be completely unfazed by the noise coming from that little being?

It must be a mothering phenomenon. I cannot sit at peace when I hear that particular noise. I shift, fidget, wince, and press my foot on the invisible gas pedal.

Get home. Get home. Let's go.

Good thing we only live 1.7 miles from church.