FML Syndrome: When the Mouth Goes on Forever and the Talking Never Ends

I’m beginning to realize that people in the olden days were on to something when they said children should be seen and not heard. I’ve come to this conclusion after witnessing a scientific miracle of sorts: my daughter never stops talking. She actually seems to have inexplicably circumvented the traditional breathing process by replacing breaths with words. I know her respiratory process must be different from the rest of us because she literally talks without so much as a pause from the moment she wakes up in the morning until the moment her little eyelashes finally sink down to her cheeks in the evening. It’s bizarre and awe-inspiring, and it’s actually really working for her: her energy levels are so enhanced that we’re currently in talks with Energizer to replace their official mascot. OK, not really. But we should be.

I’m not sure when her personal talkathon started, but I am sure that she is more than capable of picking up where Jerry Lewis left off with his round-the-clock telethon. In fact, if we altered the structure of his program so that people could donate to actually make her stop talking, I’m pretty sure she’d break all known fundraising records. I’m making light of it, but if we can get real about the situation for a moment here, I’ll admit that my daughter’s incessant talking is driving me absolutely bonkers. It doesn’t help that she prefaces every sentence with a semi-whining “Mommeeeeeeee,” which is repeated mercilessly until I grant her the object of her desire: prolonged eye contact indicating that she has my full and enthusiastic undivided attention.

And let me say for the record before continuing my tirade that I am well aware that I have a lot to be thankful for. I, for example, waited a good long time to earn the glorious “mommy” title, so I know what it’s like to yearn to hear that word. I also have a son who is undergoing early intervention therapy for speech delay, so I also know what it’s like to yearn to hear your child say any words at all. I love my children fiercely, and I do not take it for granted that I have been blessed with them nor that I have been blessed with a toddler whose mastery of the English language could rival many children’s twice her age. But even as I keep these blessings in mind, I still think that too much talking is—simply—too much talking.

Also not helping my tolerance of the situation is the fact that her ongoing monologue is often supplemented by what I can only describe as a tortuously long, operatic stream-of-consciousness ballad. Sometimes her songs describe what she is doing; sometimes they decode the deepest longings of her heart; and other times they narrate a completely nonsensical fairy tale. They are always gloriously off-key. Take her most recent rendition, a portion of which I felt compelled to capture on video, lest anyone question how bewildering my life at home can truly be:

“Go away cowboys—I am the queen. Let it go, let it go. You know who I am. I’m gonna hurt Jesus (just transcribing—don’t shoot the messenger). I don’t want nobody behind me. You know I’m the real rough stuff. But, these are just my PJs. You know better than my whole world. I’m gonna free this whole kingdom. Anna, go away. I will untie it by myself. Please, let me play with you. I promise, Anna, I won’t have magical powers.”

In the morning, and sometimes even up until as late as 2:00 P.M., I can usually manage to find some amusement and even joy in listening to my daughter’s ramblings. Once we cross the 2:00 P.M. threshold, however, and the pitter-patter of toddler chatter has been raining down since 7:00 A.M., I begin to lose a few more coins out of the ol’ piggy bank of sanity. And after several months of enjoying/enduring a steady stream of commentary from my eldest, I’ve come to recognize the symptoms of a semi-debilitating condition that I’ve taken the liberty of calling FML Syndrome.

Although FML in this instance isn’t the FML with which you may have a vague (if not distinct) familiarity, I suspect in many instances the two acronyms can be used interchangeably. The FML Syndrome I’ve identified, however, stands for Fatigued Mommy Listening Syndrome, and if you have experienced or are experiencing one or more of the following situations, you too may be suffering from it:

• When you’re at a department store alone—make that if you’re ever at a department store alone—and you hear a child yell, “Mommy!” you leap into a rack of clothes like you are taking refuge in the barracks and pull the garments over your face so as to expose only your eyes, which dart wildly around the store trying to figure out how your precious offspring managed to hunt you down in a public setting 15 miles away from your house. This reaction and others like it can only be compared to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and are surefire indications that you are well within the throes of FML Syndrome.
• You find yourself perfectly content to sit alone and stare quietly into space in social settings. Whereas you used to look forward to meeting up with friends to catch up on each other’s lives, you now use time away with adults as an opportunity to disengage from the world and just be silent in your own space. Spending what should be social time with fellow mommies in complete and awkward silence, knowing that certain societal norms will prevent them from talking endlessly when it’s abundantly clear you’re not interested in listening, is often a sign of FML Syndrome.
• When you hear about the government’s attempts to subvert the Geneva convention guidelines pertaining to torture by using “humane interrogation techniques,” you quietly laugh to yourself knowing that they’ve got it all wrong. True torture (and truly accepted torture) is coming at you live in an incessant stream from the booster seat directly behind you. Feeling as though the circumstances of your daily life are akin to—if not less humane than—the government’s interrogation techniques is definitely characteristic of FML Syndrome.
• Quiet moments at home make you nervous. If, after waking up from what appears to be a silence-induced moment of bliss at home, you realize you can neither see nor hear your children and immediately launch into a full-blown, sweat-drenched panicked search to find them, you might be suffering from FML Syndrome.

While I must confess that I have yet to find a cure for the syndrome that I’ve identified, I do hope that you are able to find solace in knowing that you no longer have to suffer in silence (much as you’d probably like to do anything in silence right now). The syndrome has a name, and the exhaustion and weariness you feel is real. I wish I could report to you that I have found a way to make it go away, but as with many of the endearing maladies associated with motherhood, this is one bug that only time (and perhaps a little bit of masking tape) can heal.

So my best advice is just to record and document for posterity the little gems your child buries in amongst the landfills full of verbal rubbish. Someday I know we’ll be sitting in our lovely, serene, and child-free homes reflecting back on our videos, five-year journals, and what’s left of our memories at that point and longing for the days when our house was filled with the nonsensical ramblings, demands, and warblings of an overzealous toddler. Maybe.