bipolar-bears, listen up...

 

Everyone has heard their share of horror stories about the "crazy people" with bipolar, the shock treatments, the bizarre behavior, suicides, walking around town in a ball gown or a bathrobe. Yeah...we've all seen, One Flew Over the Coo Coo's Nest, and it has done its job of putting a stigma on mental illness like nobody's business. I recently saw that Catherine Zeta-Jones has come out about having Bipolar II Disorder. I was really happy about it. Go you, I thought. People are really uninformed about the disorder and all of its side effects.

So, I will start with this, my name is Tara, and I am a bipolar II bear. If I could choose just one person, to help you see it as a non-scary thing, I would stand beside a fellow bipolar person,...drum-roll.... Sting! Yup, Sting is bipolar, as are most of us artistic types. I've listed below just some of the amazing people in our lives that have shaped and transformed our world.

What's the difference between the two bipolar's? Bipolar type I is the more severe version. Severe ups and downs, a sense of euphoria when manic as well as feeling they are invincible, capable of flying, spending thousands of dollars in flurry and a heightened and sometimes dangerous sexual appetite that lands them in hospitals, jails and sometimes needing alternative methods of treatment to navigate through life as "normal" as possible. Type One is a rough road and one that Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Robin Williams, Carrie Fisher and many more have struggled with, and some sadly, have ended their lives because of the abyss that swallowed any light left in their lives.

We bipolar II types have it easier than our other brother bears, but that is not to say, that we have it easy by any stretch. Our version is a more gentle animal. Yes, we have super energy, we are highly creative and uber passionate beings, with an amped up sexual drive, that can put any 25 year olds libido to shame. We feel things bigger and stronger than the average bear. Our love is BIG and our pain is BIG as well. At our mid to high place, we are seen as being extroverted, funny, super confident people. We are all of those things, but we tank out at times. Most people envy these qualities, wishing they had some of that magic dust, in their back pocket, and we become a light that others can't help but feel a magnetic pull to be near. Hell, we are our own sun in our "manic" state. You know those people that just light up a room, make people laugh and love giving lots of love...that's us. Inside, deep down, we are saying, like me, like me, love me...please. 

We do however, know that we cannot fly, and we know that if we don't take our meds, go to sleep on time, stay away from alcohol for most of us, and really keep a schedule and structure in our lives, well, shit falls apart, and fast. The tough part, the manic state feels good and why wouldn't  it. I once painted my dining room in one night, and what I mean is, I decided out of the blue that I wanted to paint my dining room and in five minutes I was at the paint store, colors picked, home and set up, and I painted until 5 a.m. It was finished, beautiful and I was up to feed my three toddlers an hour later with a smile and pancakes to greet them. (Not quite normal) Fun though! But if we stay on that ride and dismiss our reality, dismiss the precipice that awaits, well, it is a long way down and a tough road for medicine to bring us back up to zero. Who'd thought zero would have ever been a good thing? Well, it really isn't, but when you are under the covers, shades drawn, and can't find hope or joy in any one thought, this is usually when you have hit the negative numbers.

Our goal is somewhere about a 5, in terms of a 1-10 idea of stability and happiness. When shit collapses, we hit the negative numbers and getting back to zero is the first slit of light that pierces our depression and says, okay...it may just get better. "Don't forget not to come back here again", we beg. The tough part, even if we do all the things we need to do to stay in the 5 area, life happens. And when our kids move out, our dog dies, we lose our jobs, a lover leaves, etc, Well, we can up the med's, increase doc time and push to do all that we can to avert the crash, but we are not built with the average non-mentally ill brain, so we fall harder and faster, and we stay there longer, by no choice of our own. No choice...that is such the struggle!

What I want most, is to have people feel free to say out loud, yeah, I've got bipolar, whatever type, as easily as we have finally be able to say, "I struggle with depression, and I'm on Prozac", or " I just had a panic attack, do you have an Ativan?" All met with support and non-judgment. But mention bipolar and people have this preconceived notion that you are bat-shit crazy and may just show up on the evening news, in a straight jacket. "Hey bob, didn't you know she was bipolar, so sad, (Susie says with pity and a hint of elitism), thank God that isn't us honey" You've just done it Susie-Q, you've divided us. Sad and not at all evolved or compassionate. Tsk-tsk says God, Buddha, The Dalai Lama...not to mention, your mother Miss Q. Speak up Bob, you know she's a hair away from crazy town herself.

"Well, I'm bipolar and I take Lamictal and Klonopin for my depression/anxiety and to keep me in the fives. As of late...been in the mid 3's with all that's going on at present, but I'm headed upward. Fingers crossed, taking care of myself, reaching out to friends and staying as Zen as possible in hopes to hit a happy 5 sooner than later. Listening to the Dalai Lama on tape as I drive around town; The Art of happiness cooing in my ear. Certainly not planning on any evening news shenanigans, Bob.

For all of you that find yourself in therapy, saying to your doc, "I'm finding myself feeling happy part of the day and then in an instant, I can crash and I don't know why." You may just be bipolar and the good news, once you know, you can get on the right meds! They didn't diagnose me correctly until I was in my mid 30's. I suffered far too long due to a lack of information.

It took a long time to come to terms with the fact that this disorder was something I had, not something that defines me. So thank you Katherine Zeta-Jones! Speak up and join me, come out of that crazy closet and lets do what we can to get rid of the stigma! You never know, you might just see Susie poking her head up too, Kate Spade bag, still in hand. No worries Susie, you're in good company...mostly;)

Actors & Actresses

Ned Beatty
Maurice Bernard, soap opera
Jeremy Brett
Jim Carey
Lisa Nicole Carson
Rosemary Clooney, singer
Lindsay Crosby
Eric Douglas
Robert Downey Jr.
Patty Duke
Carrie Fisher
Connie Francis, singer and actress
Shecky Greene, comedian
Linda Hamilton
Moss Hart, actor, director, playright
Mariette Hartley
Margot Kidder
Vivien Leigh
Kevin McDonald, comedian
Kristy McNichols
Burgess Meredith, actor, director
Spike Milligan, actor, writer
Spike Mulligan, comic actor and writer
Nicola Pagett
Ben Stiller, actor, director, writer
David Strickland
Lili Taylor
Tracy Ullman
Jean-Claude Van Damme
Robin Williams
Jonathon Winters, comedian

Artists

Alvin Alley, dancer, choreogapher
Ludwig Von Beethoven
Tim Burton, artist, director
Francis Ford Coppola, director
George Fredrick Handel, composer
Bill Lichtenstein, producer
Joshua Logan, broadway director, producer
Vincent Van Gogh, painter
Gustav Mahier, composer
Francesco Scavullo, artist, photographer
Robert Schumann, composer
Don Simpson, movie producer
Norman Wexler, screenwriter, playwright

Entrepreneurs

Robert Campeau
Pierre Peladeau
Heinz C. Prechter
Ted Turner, media giant

Financiers

John Mulheren
Murray Pezim

Miscellaneous

Buzz Aldrin, astronaut
Clifford Beers, humanitarian
Garnet Coleman, legislator (Texas)
Larry Flynt, publisher and activist
Kit Gingrich, Newt's mom
Phil Graham, owner of Washington Post
Peter Gregg, team owner and manager, race car driver
Susan Panico (Susan Dime-Meenan), business executive
Sol Wachtier, former New York State Chief Judge

Musicians

Ludwig van Beethoven, composer
Alohe Jean Burke, musician, vocalist
Rosemary Clooney, singer
DMX Earl Simmons, rapper and actor
Ray Davies
Lenny Dee
Gaetano Donizetti, opera singer
Peter Gabriel
Jimi Hendrix
Kristen Hersh (Throwing Muses)
Phyllis Hyman
Jack Irons
Daniel Johnston
Otto Klemperer, musician, conductor
Oscar Levant, pianist, composer, television
Phil Ochs, musician, political activist, poet
John Ogden, composer, musician
Jaco Pastorius
Charley Pride
Mac Rebennack (Dr. John)
Jeannie C. Riley
Alys Robi, vocalist in Canada
Axl Rose
Nick Traina
Del Shannon
Phil Spector, musician and producer
Sting, Gordon Sumner, musician, composer
Tom Waits, musician, composer
Brian Wilson, musician, composer, arranger
Townes Van Zandt, musician, composer

Poets

John Berryman
C.E. Chaffin, writer, poet
Hart Crane
Randall Jarrell
Jane Kenyon
Robert Lowell
Sylvia Plath
Robert Schumann
Delmore Schwartz

Political

Robert Boorstin, special assistant to President Clinton
L. Brent Bozell, political scientist, attorney, writer
Bob Bullock, ex secretary of state, state comptroller and lieutenant governor
Winston Churchill
Kitty Dukasis, former First Lady of Massachusetts
Thomas Eagleton, lawyer, former U.S. Senator
Lynne Rivers, U.S. Congress
Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States

Scholars

John Strugnell, biblical scholar

Scientists

Karl Paul Link, chemist
Dimitri Mihalas

Sports

Shelley Beattie, bodybuilding, sailing
John Daly, golf
Muffin Spencer-Devlin, pro golf
Ilie Nastase, tennis
Jimmy Piersail, baseball player, Boston Red Sox, sports announcer
Barret Robbins, football
Wyatt Sexton, football
Alonzo Spellman, football
Darryl Strawberry, baseball
Dimitrius Underwood, football
Luther Wright, basketball
Bert Yancey, athlete

TV & Radio

Dick Cavett
Jay Marvin, radio, writer
Jane Pauley

Writers

Louis Althusser, philosopher, writer
Honors de Balzac
Art Buchwald, writer, humorist
Neal Cassady
Patricia Cornwell
Margot  Early
Kaye Gibbons
Johann Goethe
Graham Greene
Abbie Hoffman, writer, political activist
Kay Redfield Jamison, writer, psychologist
Peter Nolan Lawrence
Frances Lear, writer, editor, women's rights activist
Rika Lesser, writer, translator
Kate Millet
Robert Munsch
Margo Orum
Edgar Allen Poe
Theodore Roethke
Lori Schiller, writer, educator
Frances Sherwood
Scott Simmie, writer, journalist
August Strindberg
Mark Twain
Joseph Vasquez, writer, movie director
Mark Vonnegut, doctor, writer
Sol Wachtler, writer, judge
Mary Jane Ward
Virginia Woolf

 

dismantled

So I'm five, and I know, from that day forward, exactly what I want and what it looks like. I want to be a mother and a wife and I want a big family, offering up heaps of safety. I got a big part of it, alas divorce arrived when my three wee ones were all under 5, so I took a deep breathe and did it alone - not part of the five year old perspective. Lots of hard work, lots of magical loving years; with a closeness I'd never imagined and a love one can only know after having children. You can never imagine loving something so much that it feels as though your heart is now beating outside of your chest, vulnerable and exposed and fragile beyond words. You watch them sleep and you cannot imagine them grown-up, let alone, leaving and moving on into their own life...leaving you behind. You're so happy for them, excited as you remember how it was for you, and yet the pit, the sinking abyss keeps swallowing you up into a place that feels unsurvivavble, at least for me.

I don't think this would be as hard if the rest of my life was sure, steady and peaceful. Nope, instead, I have every one of the top 5 life stressers happening, and I'm kind of unraveling in its midst. I am starting a new job, I just sold my house (kids heart-broken, but I had no choice) and have no idea where I'm moving. My daughter/best friend, just moved into the city, my youngest leaves in August for college(leaving me as an empty nester) and I have to put my Mastiff down soon. This will devastate my children. I thought that when my kids left, I'd be married and that the comfort of a husband would soften the blow. My beau lives an hour away, and I can either remain seeing him several times a month or move there, leaving my kids far from their lives here when they are on break from college,and leaving my daughter upset that I've moved.

Dismantled, my life has just been, all at once, completely undone and left unrecognizable. I'm terrified and feel like someone has died. It's a toss up between, throwing up or surving another anxiety attack. Oh, let's not forget depression rearing its ugly head. Shoot me please, keeps running through my mind...

Last night I had a very surreal shared time with my x-husband, my daughter and my boyfriend, while soaking in my daughter's first moments in her apt, the echo of our voices and the smell of fresh paint in the air. I drove home deflated and exhausted, still wondering how I ended up at this point in time.

How do we go on in our lives with so much change and fear and pain?... How do we get to the other side, when the thought of doing the dishes seems so daunting? See the shrink, up the med's,..write a blog, cry off and on like a menopausal woman,which by the way, can be added to the list of hell. peri-menopausal symptoms all tied up in a bow, pretty and new upon my door step! I would like to drown in chocolate and sleep, but my mind offers no space for sweet dreams as an escape, and I can afford no extra ass at this time. My boyfriend listens and offers hugs and tissues, at a loss for a way to make it better. Breathe, cry, feel all the ache, the lost feelings, and hope that I will feel happy again. Hope that I can keep putting on the brave face each day for the outside world, and pray that my kids will forgive all that I have let slip away from us this year, including me, if I move an hour away from a town I have lived in my entire life. The five year old is back, she is here and she is in a puddle of despair. This is my today...

snuggle up luv, nigh, nigh...

I love falling asleep each night with my man. I love how we fit perfectly together in any position we puzzle ourselves into. We giggled last night as I stuffed a pillow between my knees, he asked to share, and there we were, facing each other, knees happy, and the rest of our branches perfectly slung about. We seem to be like a magnet in the way our curves seek out and find that 'right spot'. I love that we are both, feet movers at night. We rub one another's arches, firm traces of soles and sometimes even a short ribboning up the leg with a loving caress. Not too far up, or the entire sleep, cuddle idea is out the window, and my blog is now salt, tossed carelessly over the shoulder. 

  
After some sweet pillow talk, we curl up in a loose tangle of limbs and sheets, fingers gently slipped together, and finally the sweet few deep breaths, that one of us hears before we smile and slip of the edge, into the starry blue together. The best part,we both snore, so nobody can complain. We may nudge or giggle from the minor intrusion into our sleep, but it's all good fodder for the morning.
  
I happen to laugh a lot in my sleep and talk. I told him to ask me from now on, what I'm laughing about. It's been rich, let me tell ya! Oh my, I'm nuts! A few weeks ago I was laughing and upon his first soft queries, I half woke up and laughed some more while I told him I was watching a couple of animated cartoon dogs debate about what cosmetic, plastic surgery they were getting. In my dream, I was like, this is ridiculous, what dog gets a face lift?! I was having a hard time trying to bring any sense to the light of consciousness.  I couldn't unravel the many levels of the rabbit hole I was just taken from. My mate says I go to 'Inception' when I leave him in my sleep. Wild dreams, mostly nightmares every night and many with sharks. All so vivid and layered.

Each morning a ritual chat begins as my back is being kissed gently,"hey honey...what did you dream about last night?" he coos.  With my scratchy morning whisper, I begin to describe the vibrant or the dark details of another level visited. I did dream about Leo De cap and I...too far away now to remember it...but how could it be bad, right? I also dreamt about Eric Bana last week....my beau didn't like that share, and why would he? I would not want to hear about his dreams of Sienna Miller's perfect legs....not that he has them.

I digress, my point this morning was that last night, as we were snuggled up, we both felt so lucky that we fit and sleep so well together. You can't say that about just anyone, and God knows how important sleep is. So sitting here right now, I thought, this is what I want to say. It may be a snooze of a blog today...but if I've given even one smile, then I'm happy. Thank you N for being my love, my life, and my sleeping partner!! We are Polar bears, resting against the cool cheek of our family cave, and I wouldn't have it any other way...well, maybe I'd want the cubs to be little again...I miss em after all. Nothing like a three cub night...

                                

PMS~ listen up men. There is a gift in it for you!

It's a scene out of psycho if you cross us, or maybe we just can't stop crying and we have no idea why. Either way, we hate it more than you do, trust me! The best advise I can give any man who wants to survive the '10 days of hell' each month; give us wine, chocolate, back rubs and lots of love and understanding, even when you have no clue what's up with our crazy behavior. Here is your one time to lie your sweet hearts out." Honey, do you think I've gained weight?" Don't run, don't pause, even for a nano-second, you look her square in the eye, hold her close, and tell her she's never looked sexier or more beautiful as you stroke her cheek and smile softly.
After all my advise, if you really listen, you may even get the best sex of your life and satisfy her beyond your wildest dreams. How's that for motivation. It has been documented, proven, that we woman are at our most sexually primed time during the week before and during, what I like to refer to as 'shark week'.
So, step one, we are irrational and most of us know it and feel quite embarrassed by this crazy imbalance that we have absolutely NO control over. We need chocolate, salt, carbs, wine, chic flicks, physical contact.But this is paramount, we need non-selfish physical contact. Foot rubs, back, rubs, stroking our hair at night in bed, running us a bath without looking at our bodies with the horny lust of a 16 year-old who just saw a girls boobs for the first time. Offer to wash our back and ask us to tell you about our day, and REALLY listen.
This is key. I know it is difficult at times, I know, but the listening part we are keenly aware of. We woman have a super-power of knowing if we are being listened to, and asking questions during the listening session is a huge mistake. Let me reemphasize...HUGE mistake. The best thing to offer is verbal empathy. Example; That must feel awful honey,This is just so hard on you, I am going to take care of you sweetie, I want to give you a back rub when we get you out of this bath, Lets go out to dinner and get a big piece of chocolate cake before we order dinner. Get the idea? We are as over- tired and emotional as a five year-old after a day at an amusement park, and this makes trying to sooth us a finesse of sorts. Whatever you do, never utter the phrases; honey, just relax, just calm down, it's no big deal, thank God I'm not a chic, and the worst, the one that brings out the knife-slashing, eyes of death, "You're acting crazy." Don't do it, even if you couldn't be more right. No good can come from this...no, no good indeed.
Okay, so I mentioned sex on the menu. Well, I have found that after the bath and back rub, when my man cuddles up with me, no TV on, caressing my face, tucking my hair softly behind my ear and saying beautiful romantic words about how much he loves me and how amazing I am, etc. We begin to kiss and before we know it, the warmth and understanding I am offered, and the side of him that is in touch with his feminine side, now has me fully and passionately wanting him.Poof! The easy words, the giving of love and listening, and the sharing of junk food has all paid off for both of you.

The week has passed, you've had more sex and hotter sex than you did the two weeks prior, and most of all, you've now mastered the art of surviving 'shark week'. Yep, those poor suckers at work will stagger in, baggy-eyed, cranky, pulling out what little hair they may have left, and working late, all to avoid the dreaded crazy demon that has temporarily inhabited their wife. All the while, they begin to notice, you never seem to come in with a look of bewilderment and deflation. Take pity as you puff up your chest with pride, because you, are in-the-know, and you are the master of your domain. Yes, you are sexually satisfied and your wife is suddenly head-over-heels in love with you. You are the super man of all men. I know, you want to tear off that  collared shirt to reveal the capital S on your chest, but hold back, you know it's there!
Congratulations! We are no mystery, really...You have now been given the map, do not look for a detour after a few amazing months of success, an over confident sense of power may trick you, the ego hopes it will. But we will sniff it out, one single drop of blood (bull-shit) like a shark, from a hundred miles away, your toast. Don't do it, you've seen Fatal Attraction and you don't want Glenn Close appearing in your kitchen, standing beside a large pot of  boiling stew..."where's the rabbit you wonder in silent fear. Dam it, why did I detour?

So I wish you the best of luck. Oh, and you will come to a place if you are a really truly good husband, that you won't even dread this time of the month. You might just welcome it as a time for fantastic sex with the girl you fell in love with.
...and so doth endeth the lessson.

and the road twists and bends and turns....

                                           ...and everywhere I see us.
I saw us today in the sun, as we walked along the roadside, our sweet girl a few feet ahead of us. I saw us in each room we chose a paint color for, and in the new french doors we uncovered behind some hidden curtains. I saw us in the old bathroom cabinet that we'll rip down together and replace with my Anthropologie cobalt mirror. I saw us in your mahogany dresser, and in the wind chimes, in the empty patch of earth begging for our garden, and I saw us as we all cuddled in giggles on the bed at twilight, with everything dancing and singing around us, calling of home and love. I saw your sweet smile lift into joy and a peace wash over your heart. I saw you in me today, and me in you...and I drove home smiling the whole way. We are six now, and oh, but how we do so love the number 6. How lucky are we...how very lucky

A Safe Place ~ ...in the garden.

    Present day 1997

I sat and watched my father for hours as he worked on our roof with my husband, all too eager to grab whatever tool they might need or frequent the kitchen for more bottles of water to keep them going. Was I ten again? I laughed at myself in the kitchen on my third trip to deliver sustenance to my two favorite men, shaking my head at what seemed so childish. Oh, I have really lost it! I am a 26-year-old married woman and mother of three, and to this day, I am still my father’s little girl. Being this happy when my dad is near even makes my husband smile and shake his head in amusement.

 "Hey Kiddo", my hubby mimics my dad while winking at him, do you think you might make some dinner soon?" 

I shot back an evil eye as I put my hands on my hips and smiled, as if to say ”Really?”

 "Should I push him off the roof now or later, Katie-pie?" my father chides.

"Later, maybe…just be careful up there and I’ll call you in when dinner is ready."

I hear my father’s laughter as I make my way around the house, and I can do nothing but smile and love him a bit more every day.

I decided to gather up my mom and the kids in the garden. My mother is tending to my tomatoes, the size of grapefruit with a taste that bursts into your mouth, with warmth and sweetness that causes you to close your eyes and smile.

My mother is in her J.Jill jeans, Dad’s sweatshirt, and her Docksiders from the early 80's. She looks adorable. She has a scarf pulling back her blonde hair, reminiscent of Grace Kelly. She has next-to-no makeup on, except for her Revlon Naked Pink lipstick, which she has worn forever. I don't know what she'll do if they ever discontinue that color. I remember taking sips of her Tab when I was a kid and seeing her lipstick marks on the lip of the can. It had a strong perfumey taste, and oddly, despite my hating the combination of lipstick and soda, I always took a sip. Maybe it was the fact that we weren’t ever allowed more than a taste of any soda, coffee, wine, or beer which made that one sip something you’d grab, even if you really could have cared less. You just weren’t going to miss the chance to have what the grownups had.

She smells of Chanel and looks as beautiful today as she did in her wedding album, an album I had thumbed through so often, as a kind of bedtime story when I was little. White tents filled with twinkle lights, candles, and fancy tables covered in white linens in Grand mom’s back yard overlooking the ocean. It was magical and it was what I dreamed my wedding day would be like when I grew up. 

 She has been stable for almost eleven years, not counting the year we all fell apart from losing Sam. We are all so thankful for her recovery and proud of her strength. Since then she has remained on her medicine and is still seeing her psychiatrist monthly.

I am particularly proud of my father for never walking away or giving up on her through those years and all of the craziness they carried, for staying as constant as a rock for us, especially when we needed his courage the most. Unlike most of my other friends’ parents who had split up, mine were still quite happily together. I remember one conversation in particular, when I asked my father if he ever thought about leaving her and taking us with him.

“It was never an option Kate. I loved your mother more than life and I knew one day she'd come back to me, back to us, and she did." This conversation played in my head as I moved towards my garden.

Now she was a dreamy grandmother who refused to be called grandma, which was for "old people!" she said…and so she was Mom-mom and that suited us all just fine.

My little love beans are busy moving rocks and trying to keep on the oversized gardening gloves that Mom-mom has given them. They feel like big helpers and have such a seriously delightful glee about them. Will, named after my father, is six, and he loves everything about nature and being busy. Gillian, named after my grandmother, is four-and-a-half and the spitting image of me; she is all too eager to please and is always humming when she is busy with a project. She has this adorable habit of chewing on her tongue when in concentrating deeply. It just kills me. And Peter; Peter is three years old. He is our little Buddha, always taking in everything around him with such joy that it causes one to stop and watch with contagious wonder. They have melted my heart and I love every minute of being their mom.

"Mom, do you and Dad want to stay for dinner, or do you think Dad might get too tired?" Dad had a fainting spell a few weeks ago that ended up being nothing more than a sugar crash, but it scared the hell out of me nonetheless.

"Stop worrying about him Kate, he's fit as a fiddle. Dinner would be wonderful. What can I do to help?"

"Not a thing Mom, just come on in and have some tea while I get the kids in the bath."

"Come on lovies!" My mother reaches out to Will to pull her up as she moans a bit from her achy back.

"Oh boy Willow, your Mom-mom is stiff." Will pats the dirt off the back of her jeans and smiles. “

 Gillian bops over in her tutu and frog boots, wiggles her index finger in a ‘come here’ motion, then takes each of her sweet cherub hands and cradles my mother’s cheeks. She looks my mother seriously in the face and whispers closely, “You’re not old Mom-mom, you just get extra crinkly when you smile, don’t worry.” Gilly then mimics what she thinks it looks like. I laugh as my mother kisses her and says, “Well thank you, dear. I feel so much better now that you told me.”

"What’s ‘sniff’?” says Peter, as he follows the erratic flight of a nearby butterfly.

We all chuckle as I wrap him up in my arms and kiss under his sweet full cheeks. I linger there and inhale his sweet smell of dirt, basil, and baby. I catch a glance of my mother placing her hand over her heart, as she knows exactly how much my heart is swelling. We smile at one another and all move our way to the back door, an old wooden door that creaks as you open it and slams shut when you let it go. I swear I smile every time I hear it.