Once a dear friend told me that I ought to keep a pair of old sneakers in the trunk of the car cause you never know when you gotta run. One day the thought frightened me so badly that I decided that I had enough left over running shoes that I would put a pair in every trunk. You just never know, right?
I complain a lot. I have a screaming headache. Not only is it laborious to talk, I have this aching behind my eyes that will not dissipate.
I just got back from the library with the kids, hence the headache. It is hard enough to get them all rounded up when I do have a voice. Think of if you have hardly a voice and you have to go all Joan Rivers on them. A sick Joan Rivers. I find that my facial expressions have more meaning now, my pleading more involved because my voice can not keep up. Me, you. We have talk. There aren't very many words that can be said when you have to work so hard to say them, so you have to make it short and to the point.
In the scramble to get to the stinking library the headache started. I ran around the house searching for books to return and yelped at Eraser Eater a few times to get his butt in gear. That boy really does it to me, I tell ya. Once in the car he says to me, "Mom, it makes me so sad when you yell at me!" I reply in broken utterances and whispers, "I can't yell at you if I wanted to." The drive there was ok. We were cruising right along like normal. We were almost at the parking lot of the library and it hit me. I am wearing my slippers. I panicked for a split moment and then I thought, hey, I'll be thirty this year and I shouldn't care if people see me out in my slippers. I seriously was going to do it and then I remembered my "out." I sent the Oldest to the trunk to get my sneakers and I took off my first slipper. I almost retched when I saw a smashed Craisin at the bottom of it. I don't like thinking about stuff like that.
The Oldest said that I was saved from eternal embarrassment or something like that because of the sneakers in the trunk. I swear man, always keep a spare. (Thanks, Ann) That is a lesson learned for you.
So, being mute is not so bad. I mean, it is kind of bad. Last night Dear Sir and I just stared at each other over dinner. I think he can not bear to hear me talk. He kept making weird eyes whenever I would say something. He kept saying stuff like, "Can't you take medicine for that?!"
"That's messed up. You need to see a doctor or something." "Just don't talk." "It has to be more than allergies." I had him order our food. You know, I can't talk. I wanted some dessert once I was done eating and I went up to the counter to order an ice cream cone and the lady had me repeat it again because she could not hear me. Then she gave me the wrong thing. I guess she still couldn't hear me. Dear Sir was not enjoying his satanic shake because I guess it was just too good for him. Man, it was good. We ended up switching desserts and I woke up this morning, got on the scale and almost screamed when I gained a pound. Except a scream could not, still, come from my lips.
All lessons in life can be learned from The Little Mermaid (as my daughter clearly points out), so when I must answer 'yes' or 'no', I should just "nod 'yes' and shake 'no.' Just like Ariel." I do find that when communicating with no words the person who understands and can translate is my daughter. Boys, men, and the like can not figure a darn thing out (no offense). The Oldest can't ever hear a word I say as it is. For example"
"Get in the car." I even point to the car.
"Get in the char? What's a char? What did you say, mom?"
I know you would think that the kid is pulling my leg, but trust me, he is not. He sincerely does not understand and then comes up with the most ridiculous translation all on his own. Imagine not having a voice as it is and then trying to translate the right thing to the kid when he gets it wrong. Again and again. Our math lesson lasted about an hour (that is very bad) and I was about to take the Expo pen and eat it, I was so stinking frustrated.
Thankfully the girl understands me because, gee whiz, I would just melt down. Eraser Eater looks at me in terror as I approach speaking like a Rachael Ray mutated freak job. Please don't cook for me.
Pray I retrieve my voice tomorrow so screaming and yelling can again commence.