I suppose that when I retire I will miss all those little voices calling out my name. For attention, for recognition, for comfort (and for what lately has seemed, more and more often, the whininess of long-distance whiner.)
But sometimes, I swear, I am becoming royally sick of hearing my name. It conjures those years when my mother wasn't, um, the most stable octogenarian in the precinct, and she'd call, at least a dozen times a day, leaving messages on the answering machine, all of them beseeching and pleading, some tearful, most ridiculous, every one prefixed by my name. Fuck, I got sick of hearing my name.
So I need to remind myself -- on my way to the finish line -- that children are children. And they are the reason I wanted this job in the first place. So,
Yes, Isabelle, I'll get to you in just a second. Benjamin, go ahead. Your hand was raised first. Then you, Katy. And Liam, you're after Katy.
Oh, hell. I guess it's better that not being called at all.
Llewellen... need I ask? More beer, old son.
1 month ago