Let's go find it.

For those who don't know, I've been sick with The Plague for approximately 97 days.

And by 97 days, I mean three weeks. 

To say that I feel bad is an understatement. Last week was an especially bad week.

I lost my voice completely.

I knew it was time to call a doctor, which is swell for people who have voices who are healthy enough to call doctors.

I sent my Mom a text message. Can I come over for you to make an appointment for me?

Duh, she said.

When I got to her house, I didn't want to try to talk, because I was scared that my Batman vs. Darth Vader voice would scare the crap out of three pretty cool little girls I know.

My favorite red-haired child, little L, who is almost 4,  came up to me at the kitchen table. Grandma told her that Aunt Monica lost her voice, and that Aunt Monica was going to the doctor for it.

Little L looked at me, the wheels in her brain turning.

"Monica, where's your voice? Where'd it go?"

Little L, Grandma explained. Aunt Monica is sick and she lost her voice.

Little L: "Monica, let's go find it! Let's find your voice!"

Little L, in her innocence, thought my voice was like a lost toy, something she could find if she concentrated hard enough.

And then I, with my Batman vs. Darth Vader voice, melted into a giant pile of goo.

This kid is the best. 



(By the way, I got my voice back and I'm working on the ear infection thing. How a grown ass adult gets a double ear infection for the first time in her 30s is something I'll never understand.)