In some ways I wish I'd known about my BP when my kids were little, because I could have explained to them why my moods were all over the map. I know they were confused and they were always walking on eggshells around me because they didn't have a clue as to which mother they were dealing with at a given time---the one who threw screaming fits on the front lawn, the one who laughed and played with them, or the one whose depression was such that it put me beyond the reach of their love.

As it turned out, I wasn't diagnosed till they were all grown and gone, and telling them was no big deal. They'd known something was wrong with me all along, and it was good for them to have a name for it.