The night before it began, my husband reminded me, “No talking tomorrow”

We’ve all said it at least once (most likely when we were teens). It was probably said in jest, but maybe you were serious.

Perhaps you were seeking a spiritual boost, doing it as a zechus for something, or you read some new-age article that spoke of the benefits of silence and thought, so cool, Yiddishkeit already knows this, let me try this. You may have even dabbled in it for an hour or two. But most of us have failed when it comes to doing a Taanis Dibbur.

We failed because words are delicious. They taste better than chocolate cake. They’re more tempting than salty potato chips.

But you wonder: what did I miss? What enlightenment could I have reached had I the verve, the willpower to push through and just keep my mouth closed?

That’s what you have me for.

I did a Taanis Dibbur for two days. Or actually, a Taanis Communication. I couldn’t talk, text, email, or write for 48 hours. 

Of course, there were exceptions:

I was allowed to teach. (I wasn’t taking off two days of work.)

I could talk to my baby, because I think it’s child abuse if you don’t coo back at a baby and call him a mushy shmushy.

My discretion (‘cuz sometimes life happens — shocker).

How it went down

I told my husband, and he predicted the next few days would be the best days of our marriage. I scowled. No words necessary there.

I told my kids and educated them on different gestures I might use for things like “come, brush your teeth,” and “put your coat on.” They liked my gesture for exasperation the most.  “Do it again Mommy,” they said, and tried copying me as I pulled a grotesque face and mock-clawed at my face. 

“That face is for if you guys are going crazy and I’m going to lose it and you better stop,” I told them. They laughed and made me demonstrate again. 

Then at my sister’s 30th birthday party, I announced  I was going off the grid for Monday and Tuesday. They didn’t bat an eyelid. I’ve become so quirky I’ve lost all shock value. I thought to warn my co-teachers and babysitter, but I felt kind of awkward about it, so I figured I could avoid them and see how it goes.

The night before it began, as I got into bed, my husband reminded me, “No talking tomorrow,” and suddenly it wasn’t bedtime anymore. I felt a desperate need to talk about anything, everything: the kids, tomorrow’s lunch, politics, the sudden itch on my nose. I felt a clenching in my chest. What are my last words? Did I say everything I need to?

I’ve never had a near-death experience, or had my life flash before me, but in that moment, there was a finality that made me balk. And with that wonderful feeling, I went to sleep.

Of all mornings to wake up 40 minutes late! But of course, Murphy loves to have fun. My kids were up, playing. No one was dressed. I floundered out of bed, plucking at myself, indicating for my kids to get dressed.

“You can’t talk, Mommy!” my boys laughed at me. But they went to their room and started dressing. I went to the kitchen to make the lunches. I looked in the freezer. Mini pitas and chummus would have to work. I went to my boys, snapped my fingers, held up the pitas, and used my other hand, poised outward, to ask them how many, then held up one, then two fingers.

My eldest requested two pitas, my third said one, and my second held up three fingers. You’d think it would be chaos with my waking up late, but the morning went relatively smoothly. The only hiccup was my four-year-old refusing to get dressed. I tapped my index finger on my outside wrist to indicate the time — he wasn’t getting it. I held up three fingers, flashed them at him slightly aggressively, and then lowered one. He got that message, but still stubbornly refused to get dressed. So I cheated. “It’s late, and if you don’t get dressed now, I’m going to take away your Circle cards for the day,” I told him.

That worked. He got dressed like a tattele. Don’t judge me too harshly.