Life has this funny way of reminding you that you’re not a spring chicken anymore. One day, you’re a slick, multitasking whiz, juggling a full calendar and a mental Rolodex of names and numbers. The next, you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at an open fridge, with absolutely no idea why you went in there. Then comes the real gutpunch: you’re trying to get your son’s attention, and out of your mouth comes, “Hey, Archie!”—which, for the record, is the name of our Kelpie X dog.
My husband Arcadi thinks it’s hilarious. My son, Jack, just sighs and says, “That’s okay, Mum. You can just call me ‘woof.’”
I’m in my mid-fifties, and my brain has started to feel like an old computer with a dial-up modem.…