When my oldest was born, it took several months for me to realize that I was quite a few marbles short of a full bag

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ike everyone else, I started out with a nice big bag of marbles. Brightly colored, beautiful shiny marbles. Every one of those marbles was precious; they held nuggets of important information such as the appropriate location for the cordless phone — the base, not in the fridge — and the destination for the Yom Tov butcher order list — not the pediatrician’s voicemail.

But then those marbles started getting lost. They were slippery and round and they rolled under sofas and wall ovens and got stuck between slats of A/C vents. I tried holding on to them, but it was an exercise in futility.

When my oldest was born, it took several months for me to realize that I was quite a few marbles short of a full bag. I walked aimlessly around rooms I had no recollection of entering and found myself rocking the shopping cart at the supermarket, my baby’s cries always ringing in my brain. I gave up my job before they took it away from me.