I helped the older ones across the street to wait for carpool and blew kisses. Then I dropped my four-year-old off at school. I cheated again and said, “Bye, I love you, have a great day,” because he’s too young to get that his mommy is nutso, so blowing kisses won’t suffice.

I wasn’t teaching that day, which spared me the teacher-room crisis that I’d have to face tomorrow. But in the meantime, I had to drop my baby off at the babysitter.

I said no written notes, but notes are better than talking, so on a sticky I wrote, Can’t talk. Ate @ 8:50.

Michal, my son’s babysitter, took my note, read it, and asked, “Laryngitis?” When I shook my head ‘no,’ the odd look came. Oh well, she’s an avid Mishpacha reader. She’ll get a kick out of it when I tell her what it was about later.

Back at home, I wouldn’t be talking anyway, but I felt so isolated. I couldn’t call my sister, like I usually do in the morning, and I couldn’t text my friends back. I accidentally responded to an email from Michal Frischman. It was fairly dry in content, but I think I was desperate for some form of human contact.

The house was too quiet, so I turned on the music louder than usual and sang along. Not sure why it was allowed, but I did it. I couldn’t communicate, so I found myself turning domestic. I changed all the linens, folded all the laundry, organized a drawer, baked oatmeal squares. I’m quite productive when I’m not distracted by my phone.

I still had time, so I did a guided meditation for ten minutes. It was awesome. Also I read. A whole book. Not sure if it’s because I suddenly had time or it was that interesting (The Smartest Kids in the World and How They got that Way, if you’re curious).

My sister posted a cute clip of my nephew. I almost responded with a heart emoji, but caught myself. There was a glorious moment where I realized I was free from commenting and feigning interest in other people’s kids for two days. I love my nieces and nephews, and yes, they’re cuter than yours. But really, how many blue hearts, and red hearts, and emojis of varying expressions can I post along with “precious,” “so cute,” “I love him”?

I’m usually making mental calculations: did I vary my responses enough that day, or do I sound like the bored aunt I am? Or was I making sure I didn’t write “cute!” right after my other sister just posted that. And to my sisters, you know I mean no offense, I’m just being me.

The time went by quickly and I had to pick up my baby, which was a relief, because I allowed myself to talk to him. But even then, I felt a damper in the back of my throat stopping my voice, and I didn’t end up talking to him half as much as I usually do.

My four-year-old came home soon after. I gave him a huge megawatt smile when he walked in the door. This was instead of a standard “Hello!” It fell short in my mind, but he seemed fine. He asked for a snack, and I usually bargain him down to a mini pretzel bag, but I couldn’t argue, so he had Dipsy Doodles instead. Then he made himself chocolate milk, spilled it, and cleaned it up. I didn’t say a word. It was kind of beautiful to just let go like that.

My next son came home and wasn’t    so happy with my non-talking status. “Mommy, you have to talk to me!” I just smiled serenely. But then he just went and did his homework, and started and completed his mini book report, the same book report I’d been nagging him to do all week. Coincidence? I think not.

My oldest was pretty chilled about me not talking. Although there was a moment when I had to resist the strong urge to correct his grammar. He said he didn’t know someone “good.” Almost reflexively, I started to say, “Well,” but caught myself.

The house was really calm. Everyone was playing, and there was little to no bickering. Was my silence really that powerful? It’s frightening to consider.

But even with my children being possessed by angels, I was on edge. I had a lot on my mind, a lot going on around me, and I had no place to put it. I felt my anxiety, my fears, my concerns stewing and bubbling in me. Washing dishes later, I decided one day was enough. I couldn’t do this for another day. It was too depressing.

I put the kids to bed, pulling on my four-year-old’s clothes to tell him to get into pajamas. He said, “I know, I know,” and did so. My kids asked me to continue reading “The Mysterious Benedict Society” to them. I shook my head no. They were deeply disappointed. I was deeply happy.

When my husband came home, we sat down and did our taxes. I grumbled a few times, but otherwise was zip. C’mon, you can’t not grumble while doing taxes.

I marked papers afterwards. If all else fails, there are always papers to grade.

I hadn’t planned on continuing it the following morning because I felt so depressed thinking of going another day like this, but when I woke up, my husband said, “Good morning, Taanis Dibbur weirdo,” and I’m nothing if not competitive, so I kept to it.

Then my son was yelling, “Where are my socks?” Automatically, I told him. “You’re not allowed to talk to me like that!” He pounced in a “gotcha” kind of voice and said, “You talked! You talked! Now you have to talk to me!” I felt bad. Why was I doing this again?

And the malaise was still there. My husband looked at me. “You look depressed,” he said. I nodded. That’s how I felt. “You’re supposed to be uplifted. You’re growing.” Guess I’m not that holy. I hate this.

As the morning progressed, I spoke again. A Circle card intervention. Don’t ask. It was just a few words, don’t worry.

Going in to teach was nerve wracking. I wished I’d given everyone the heads up. Now I’d just be gesturing like a mad woman. I lingered in the parking lot. The fewer people I see, the better. Then instead of wishing the security guard a good morning, I smiled. That felt wrong to me.

Thankfully, the teacher’s room was empty when I arrived. But, oh no, Shuli just walked in. I always talk to Shuli. Hide! I ducked into the coat closet, but she had her own coat to hang up. Duh.

She greeted me, of course. Shuli is the kind who when she sees anyone new introduces herself and asks all the right, welcoming questions. I should be more like her. But I’m not. I pointed at my throat.

“Laryngitis?” she guessed. I shook my head and opened my phone, pointing to the title of my Google doc, “Taanis Dibbur.” She laughed. I forget the few things she said next, but then she paused and said, “Wow, I never realized how much I talk. You only see it when there’s no response.” We both chuckled. My chuckle didn’t make noise, though. Does it count?

The bell rang and I taught my first class. Oh, it was such a pleasure to blither on about Macbeth, even more than the usual joy I take in teaching Shakespeare. (Yes, I’m that kind of annoying English teacher.) The moment class was over, I shut down again. I felt my throat close. There was a real physical response to my non-speaking.

I peeked into the teacher’s room. It was empty so I figured I was safe for the next few minutes. I was wrong of course. A co-teacher came in. I always love talking to her. She’s intelligent, has great style, and is crazy creative. Instead of saying hi, I gave her a big smile. That worked. And then she started talking. Oh no, danger, danger! How not to look rude or deranged?

“I bought a new bird cookie cutter that I have to toivel. I lent out my old one, but I have no clue to whom. I think this one is nicer than my old one though, so there’s something good coming out of this.” She held up a cookie cutter.

I just smiled and nodded encouragingly, without saying a word, and she left to toivel her cookie cutter (there’s a mikveh in the school). That’s it. A whole conversation with pauses and all, and my nods were enough to validate her. Yes, it’s a nice cookie cutter, and yes, it’s frustrating that she doesn’t know who has her old one. Seriously, I think most conversations can be settled with just a few nods. When you can’t talk, you realize how unnecessary you are in the first place.

Between classes, I usually go back to the teacher’s room. Instead I hung out in my classroom. It was too difficult to try not to not talk, or have someone explain that I wasn’t talking. My students who were on break came into the class and quickly found their seats, and started working on the daily “do-nows.” I didn’t tell them class hadn’t started yet. I can be evil sometimes.

The rest of the day went better. I finished teaching, picked up my baby, and was home safe. The kids did their homework. There was lots of loud clapping and psssts while I tried to get their attention. I helped my middle son with his homework, and did speak a few words, but it was all l’toeles. I promise.

I stopped myself from posting a video of my baby almost crawling. That was hard. Also hard was ignoring texts and emails. They could wait. Even if my friend was convinced she insulted me because I didn’t respond. Sorry!

Supper was challenging. My middle son refused to eat and was driving me looloo over why he couldn’t have cereal and milk. “You have to talk, Mommy!” So I did. And asked him if he didn’t even taste supper, how did he know he didn’t like it? The End.

After we ate supper, I pantomimed asking my husband if he wanted dessert. It took him a while to decipher my motions, and he asked, “Are you trying to get stuff to write about?” Later, while trying to gesture something about the baby, he purposely misinterpreted everything I motioned, just to mess with me. He’s nice like that.

Later, my husband asked the kids what they liked or didn’t like about my Taanis Dibbur.

My oldest said he missed me saying hello and I love you, and reading to him. My second said he “didn’t chap” a thing I was motioning. And my third shrugged. He didn’t seem to care that much.

The second day wasn’t as depressing or distressing as the first. Maybe because I got to talk while I taught. I don’t know.

At night I contemplated going to Daniella’s, a local clothing store. They were having a huge 80% end-of-season sale, but I decided going shopping was too complicated. What if I met someone I knew?

After marking more papers, I was happy to call it a night. Speech, glorious speech, was awaiting me in the morning.

The Results

This was the first LifeLab that was all work and no play. I hated it. And I’m an “antisocial” introvert!

I got dark and deep imagining if I lost my capacity to speak and communicate, and what meaning my life would or would not have. Being reduced to gestures, everything becomes surface deep.

I do have to say, though, that my kids behaved better. They really did. I couldn’t argue with them, not about getting dressed, lunches, homework, teasing each other — and somehow the need for my “overwhelmed losing it gesture” never rose. There is something to be said for just not responding to irritating stimuli. I didn’t pick any battles, because I couldn’t, but seemed to have come out on top.

It was also nice to just say, “Nope, I can’t respond to that,” when it came to group chats. It makes me more conscious of the senseless blather that goes on 99 percent of the time. I should mute them all (but I won’t). And I had more time to read. There are fewer distractions when you don’t talk.

But still, even with well-behaved kids and more leisure time, I wouldn’t do it again. That gnawing in my chest, the need to vent but being unable, was too hard. I felt sick. And all I needed was the talking cure, no therapist even necessary.

So, go ahead and threaten your husband, or your friends, or your kids with a Taanis Dibbur. I always rolled my eyes when I heard people were doing them. Now I’ll just fold my arms and say, “I dare you,” and watch you self-implode.

Is there something you’ve always been curious about but never had the guts to try? Esther just might do it!

Send your suggestions to Life Lab at familyfirst@mishpacha.com