I've lost my voice. I feel like a silent observer to my own life. When the boys are wrestling in the back of the van, I have nothing to say. I hear giggles past bedtime and all I can do is walk in to the room and hope my stance carries the weight of stern reprimand.
I've been sending Nicholas with whispered instructions to go get so-and-so or tell so-and-so to come downstairs. It hasn't been very effective. I never knew, until now, how often that poor child is ignored.
It's been something of a silent retreat for me all weekend, in fact, and it hasn't been all bad. I've been frustrated here and there that someone doesn't understand what I need, but I haven't once been frustrated for having said the same thing five times.
I have wished that I could read to the children, that's true, but mostly I've just been surprised by how little my voice matters around here. Oh, I don't mean that I'm unimportant. No, no, no, I don't mean that all. What I mean is that it's more in the being here that I'm important than in the what I have to say.