The first time I had laryngitis as a mother, of course I knew that talking would be off the table: I’d had laryngitis a a few times as a younger woman, and what I remember from those times was that it was kind of fun: trying to talk, failing. Trying to talk a few minutes later, failing. Realizing that I honestly couldn’t talk It was a bit of a hoot, really. But when I was a mother of three children, 1, 2 and 4, it wasn’t such a hoot to have talking off the table.
Because no talking also meant (I’m embarrassed but determined to be honest) no yelling. In my defense, my most frequent thing to yell was “hey!” in order to get someone’s attention over the long distance of our one-acre lot. Getting their attention, in order to ask/warn/order, was always Job One. If I couldn’t yell, what could I do?
Over my few days of utter silence around my children, I realized you don’t need to yell to communicate. I also realized that I was a yell-er. Both very humbling realizations.
On a more positive note, I found that after three days of not speaking above a faint whisper, that I could parent – mother – function – just fine, without my voice. In three days I discovered my boys were more attentive to me than I’d given them credit for, and they didn’t need those Heys. Without the yelling, no disaster ensued: my boys were okay without my guard rails of shouting, of cautions, of warnings. And in terms of staying connected to them, I was forced to find other ways. In whispers. In shared activities. In gestures. In my face, my fingertips, my smile. We did just fine.
I doubt they remember those three days. But I do. Two thing I learned: first, listening is more useful — more important — than warning. Knowing I was listening when they spoke made a much bigger impact on their behavior than knowing I was watching. And the second thing I learned was how peaceful our time together could be when I was unable to speak, and had to — could only — listen. I began to understand the power of being receptive, attentive, and silent, all at the same time. The connection, in silence, grew much faster than it had in talking. Like a little pepper plant, it grew and grew and flourished.
The other thing I remember is that for a short while after I got my voice back, I treasured it: it seemed strangely powerful — like a super-power, whereas before I know I threw it around thoughtlessly. . And the thing I remember best is that I treasured my voice when it came back, against the realization of the gift a voice can be. When my voice came back I can’t say that I never yelled “hey!” again. But I can attest that my awareness of how complex communication is, how it can flourish in silence, is still echoing in my psyche.