I lost my voice this past week, and with it, all my clout as a mother.

I've heard of parents who work their authoritarian magic in nothing but a hush. Their speaking voices are barely above a whisper, and yet their children do as they say, quickly and quietly.

Is it possible? Because my children only tune me in when my voice reaches a certain pitch and decibel level.

"Mom, why are you yelling at me?" my 7-year-old asks, looking up from a book he's reading.

"Because you didn't hear me the first five times," I shout.

But there I was this week, with no voice at all.

"Come down to dinner," I croaked from the base of the stairs. No movement from the second floor. I could hear a great deal of action, but none of it was directed toward tromping down to supper.

"Dinner!" I squeaked, in a voice that didn't carry past the second step. What to do? I nearly hopped in my car, drove to the store, and purchased a whistle so I could begin to parent Captain von Trapp-style. Ten minutes later, I stomped my way upstairs to touch each child on the shoulder, deliver the look of death and usher them downstairs.

They say you don't know what a good thing is until it's gone. Goodness, it turns out a voice box is pretty crucial as a parent.

We went to the local bookstore where the kids begged me to read to them. My voice was already fading, but after working my way through a thick stack of Berenstain Bears, the words coming out of my mouth were more of a suggestion than actual sound. I was like the west wind blowing over a glass soda pop bottle.

I still had a pile of unread stories on my lap, but there was simply nothing left. "Sorry, kids," I mimed, "but we've got to go."

The entire family began feeling the ramifications of the voiceless mother. Every day the boys prayed for my voice to return. This is probably because my nightly bedtime singing, which usually includes an elaborate medley of Primary songs, was sounding more and more like Gollum's chants as the week went on. I was the monster in the closet, kissing them goodnight.

Even the baby, who is just entering that "I love no one but this mama" phase, kept his wary distance. I held him and cooed and he eyed me strangely, with a look that said, "This looks like Mama. Smells like Mama. But sounds like a rusty rattle."

After a week of drinking herbal tea doused in honey, my voice slowly came back. On Friday evening we were sitting down to scripture study. Afterward, the boys lounged around reading and playing.

"OK, kids, time for bed," my husband said.

No movement.

I stepped in.

"All right! Everyone hop up, march to your rooms, get your pajamas on and brush your teeth!"

The children stood up and ran to their rooms. My husband looked at me gratefully.

"It's nice to have your voice back," he said.

I couldn't agree more.