I've lost my voice. It's pretty common this time of year with all the roving viral disasters waiting to happen, but it doesn't make it any easier. When it didn't clear up after a ridiculous amount of time, I found a tiny break in my schedule to go to the doctor.
"You need to rest your voice," she told me. "Talk as little as possible."
Definitely one of the dreaded diagnoses for mothers. On par with "get more sleep", "slow down a little", "don't strain yourself", or the ultimate laugh-riot "you need to rest."
I'm a mother. I don't do rest. It's not in my contract. It's right there in the fine print, just below the part that talks about how you will instinctively put out your hands when your child starts to throw up at someone else's house, and above where it details how you will not have a completely restful night's sleep for the next 18 years. All mothers sign that contract when they hand you that beautiful new baby, and the contract is quite specific – mother's are not allowed to be sick or injured.
Every mother I know has been in this spot. Got a stomach virus bad enough that you can't keep anything down? You still manage to make dinner. Threw your back out so bad it hurts to move? You struggle to find the least painful position on unforgiving metal bleachers so that you don't miss that all-important game. Become so hoarse that Marge Simpson sound melodious next to you? You still read (and re-read) that favorite bedtime story. My mother, recovering from a heart attack, still put a belated Thanksgiving dinner on the table when she got out of the hospital. A friend juggled chemotherapy sessions around her son's hockey schedule.
Why are we convinced that we have to take care of everyone else before ourselves? In my case, it's far too easy to buy into the "Super Mom" mythology: faster than a speeding deadline; more powerful than a trunk full of groceries; able to leap midnight laundry marathons in a single bound. But I'm starting to question whether I'm setting a good example for my own daughter to follow. Do I want her thinking that her health and well-being should always be secondary? Am I somehow sending the message that in order to be a good mother you have to always put others before yourself?
As I mused on this thought last night, trying not to strain my suffering vocal cords with unnecessary talk, my daughter came up and gave me an unexpected hug.
"Don't worry Mom," she said sweetly. "You just rest your voice. And we don't have to talk about my report card until you're feeling better."
—Erin Gudeux, senior project leader, sensory department
