I don't mean the stupid kind -- though I certainly do plenty of that. I mean the kind where I am incapable of speech (to use an archaic and, yes, I know, un-PC term for it). I've had a a strange sort of head cold since Wednesday, culminating in total laryngitis this weekend. My voice has varied from Kathleen Turner-esque (sexy!) to little more than a whisper (creepy?) with occasional moments of near-normalcy if I haven't spoken in a while.
You wouldn't think it, but not having a voice is a major handicap when it comes to looking after two madcap 17 month-olds. I feel rather like Mister Noodle, sans mustache and pseudo-Edwardian getup. (For those of you who are better parents than I am, and don't let yourself let your children watch TV, Mister Noodle is a mime character on Sesame Street, in the "Elmo's World" segment, played by the fabulous Bill Irwin.) I've been mastering the art of exaggerated expressions, mouthing of words, and modified prop comedy.
Mostly, though, I just feel powerless -- I can't say no / stop / don't / etc., nor can I effectively summon help. (Though I wonder if maybe I could do some kind of inaudible, high-pitched squeal, like Aquaman...) This afternoon, for example, all four of us were hanging in the backyard, and while I was helping Clio up the climbing structure, Elsa was over by the garden, coming perilously close to a garden rake. Normally, I would have said (to Alastair) "Baby, Elsa's about to step on that rake..." but instead, all I could do was wave my arms, advance a few steps toward him, point at the rake and mouth "rrrr-aaa-kke!" in hopes of averting Mr. Noodle-worthy slapstick comedy. (Baby steps on rake, rake handle hits her on head, birds fly in a circle over screaming baby's head, etc.)
To which Alastair replied, "It's OK. I'm watching her."
To which I would normally say, "Yeah, no, just move it." But, having an inoperative larynx, all I could do was bug my eyes out in exasperation and shake my head. And by that time, he'd returned to planting tomatoes. (Elsa, fortunately, did not step on the rake. She found some empty plastic plant pots to bang together instead.)
I also didn't have it in me to protest too vehemently when Alastair suggested that we hose the girls down in lieu of a bath. I did manage to make the point that, while it was warm, it was also breezy, and therefore not the right day for all-out garden hose fun. So, in some kind of weird compromise, he ended "misting" the girls with the hose instead. It wasn't clear whether they liked it or were just confused. Really, they were more focused on putting cedar chips into empty flower pots and pouring dirt on themselves.
Taken several weeks ago (note jacket) but the same basic idea.
Anyway, the upshot was I ended up in the house afterward with two grimy, shirtless, barefoot little girls, hungry for dinner. The twentysomething tenants in the house behind ours were drinking beers and grilling, and Alastair was out front washing the cars, and things felt generally summery and Memorial-Day-Weekend-esque. So I turned on the classic rock station and poured myself a glass of white wine, and the girls ate ravioli with their fingers, topless and bibless (what would be the point?) and we all rocked out to Jethro Tull's "John Barleycorn." I still couldn't talk, but the gals seemed to find my air-drumming hilarious. They both ate, like, a zillion strawberries. And then I took them out of their high chairs, and more dancing ensued. Picture it: two adorable, half-naked, pot-bellied baby girls holding hands and grooving and giggling on a sunny evening. Anything I might have said -- even if I could -- would have been totally superflous.
