(This is the second of three posts this week focusing on "home", in all its variations.)

Ahhh, Dave Matthews. Just a few bars of this cheery tune take me back to college, where the echoes of "Dave" (he's the 21st century version of Madonna and Prince-- he needs no last name) spewed from underneath cracked dorm room doors during late-night cram sessions. Really, his lyrics are the anthem of my formative years.

In a way, DH & I are both very much like "ants marching". Since we first met during my junior year at "Dupont", we've been continually on the move. First, we went in different directions. Six weeks into our relationship, he transferred from "Dupont" back home, then a year later, to another East Coast school. I, meanwhile, finished my college career, and followed DH to his new university where I pursued my Master's Degree. We married, and moved into our first "home" (we rented the second-floor of a turn-of-the-century duplex), and in close succession, marched into the Deep South for our first jobs. We were only there for eight months before fate knocked on our doorstep once again (actually, my current boss called me out of the blue one July day and basically offered me a job), and we were off to the Carolinas in the blink of an eye.

It's been three years since we moved into our current home. It's a starter home that we found, financed, closed on, and moved into in less than three weeks (try doing that in today's housing market!). When we first moved in, it felt like we'd stepped foot into a mansion. Our previous apartments had only had two bedrooms and one bathroom, so we didn't have nearly enough furniture to decorate all the rooms in our new place. In fact, it took us almost two years to furnish every room (although, it took my own mother nearly a decade to fully furnish her house, so I guess I was speedy in comparison).

But after a decade of moving from dorm to dorm, campus to campus, state to state, being stuck in one place for so long feels like... well... being stuck. Both DH & I find ourselves feeling antsy. We're ready for the next step in our lives, the next big move. We kind of feel like Dave's "ants"-- "Never chang(ing) a thing // The week ends the week begins." We're in a rut.

Since having G and becoming parents, there's been a very strong pull towards home. DH & I hail from completely opposite sides of the country. I'm a Yank (not to be confused with a "Yankee") by birth, and he comes from a state that considers itself to be its own country. My desire to return home-- to be closer to my parents, G's godparents, and a large network of friends and family-- was confirmed when we went back to my hometown for G's first birthday party. It just felt right. And besides, when I'm home, I sort of feel like that little ant: "Goes to visit his mommy // She feeds him well his concerns he forgets them // And remembers being small playing under the table and dreaming."

I know "home" isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'm not sure I could raise a child in the school district I attended. It's a place ripe with "competitive parenting", and I already participated in that frenzy as a child. It's insulated, ethnically uniform, and fairly old-fashioned. Then again, it's a town where people don't lock their doors, know all their neighbors, and attend ice cream socials on the village green. It's a "community" in every sense of the word.

Will DH & I take a leap of faith one day and return "home"? Or is home the place we already have, surrounded by the family we've created for ourselves? I can think of a million reasons to pack up and leave it all behind, and a million more reasons to stay. Then again, maybe we should take these chances before "Lights down, you up and die."

(This week, all my posts are going to deal with something that's very near and dear to me: home-- in all the ways these locations and emotions manifest themselves in my life.)


Exactly six years, ten months, and 19 days ago, DH and I met here:


Home sweet "Dupont". My humble abode for the four most formative years of my life. This is the place where I truly came into my own as an an individual, and later, where I discovered who I could be as part of a healthy, happy relationship. As a Blue Devil, I made friends, made mistakes, faced challenges, faced excitement, learned lessons, learned my heart. In the years since graduation (which number far more than I can believe), I've moved about half a dozen times. But really, my heart has never moved past "Dupont".

That's why I was so thrilled to "introduce" my alma mater to G during Homecoming weekend. We had a big weekend planned. First, we toured "Dupont"'s Primate Center, home to the largest lemur populartion in captivity anywhere in the world. G got an up close look at these prosimians (oooooh, did Mommy learn a new word?), then got to take one home with her... "Lenny".




Then, we cheered on our alma mater at the Homecoming football game (which we won handily-- a real hallmark at "Dupont"!). G sported her new cheerleading uniform, and tried to make a good impression as a soon-to-be member of the graduating class of 2031.


But the most anticipated moment of our weekend came when DH, G, & I visited the location where "we" began: the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity section, where DH & I met at a party on a November night almost seven years ago. I still remember what I was wearing that evening, what DH was wearing that evening, the first words I spoke to him ("You play football? What position? Offensive line, huh? Just like Orlando Pace!"-- he was hooked). In the years since DH & I graduated and moved away from "Dupont", I often found myself longing to go back to my college days. For the carefree lifestyle of waking up at noon and never changing out of my pajamas until putting on my party clothes that night. For days where my sole purpose of being was to simply soak up all the knowledge I could from this esteemed place. So, I was eager to see if that precise location would still hold the magic it did for us so long ago.



It did. But this time, it was even more magical, because the love that we formed here... that had its roots here... had grown to include our daughter.

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened." (Matthew 7: 7-8)

Over the years, this particular verse has gotten me through some very tough times. I've always found solace in the idea that whatever it is that is troubling me, I can give it up to God, and He will find it in His grace to get me through. I've thrown up my hands in exasperation over issues ranging from boyfriends to exams to a friend's difficulty conceiving, begging God to takeover. While this method hasn't always resulted in what I would have considered the ideal outcome, this "Jesus Take The Wheel" approach has given me the strength and courage to persevere.

So recently, when DH & I found ourselves in real financial trouble-- for the first time in our marriage-- I turned to God.

I wasn't asking for a windfall. I was just asking for the ability to buckle down and save more. I was asking for milk to be on sale at the grocery store, for more coupons for G's diapers, for a nickel-drop in the price of gas. I've always been a frugal person (thanks Dad!), and I know that several small things can add up to big savings. But the bills just kept piling in. Things we didn't even realize we'd bought or needed-- an unexpected vet bill for Ducky, a credit card bill we'd forgotten about, an unusually high electric bill. We continued living paycheck to paycheck, which not only frustrated us, but scared us too.

Then, last weekend, we met with our favorite photographer for G's first birthday portraits. We've used this photographer since G was born, and we've been impressed with her talent. I don't think it's a coincidence that I know not one, not two, but three different women from very different parts of my life who also know this photographer from their bible study group.

Anyway, we'd set aside the amount of money in our bank account that we'd need to pay her, knowing it would be the last money we'd be able to spend until the next pay day. We met up with our photographer for a great session, enjoying not only her skill as a photographer, but also her company. Mid-way through, DH had to leave for work-- but, unbeknownst to me, he took the check we intended to pay with along with him. At the end of the session, I searched G's diaper bag for the check, but couldn't find it. Finally, I turned to our photographer and told her I'd have to mail it to her. That's when God showed His presence through this already remarkable woman.




(These are just of a few of the many samples we have of this photographer's amazing work!)

She told me she wasn't going to accept our payment anyway. She said that over the past year, as she was growing her business, that our referrals had brought in so many new customers that this was her way of giving back to us. Without knowing a thing about our situation, she blessed us with her generousity.

Now, DH & I find ourselves with an extra $50 in our account. What to do with it? A special dinner out? A safety stash to get us through the week? No, we put it in the collection plate at church. Why? Well, while it might have been "smarter" to save it just in case, I know that by giving it to God, He will return it to us-- some day, some way-- tenfold, just when we need it the most.

Anytime you can combine some vintage Barbara Streisand and this fall's best new TV show, you know you're in for something good. I am only three episodes in, but already, "Glee" is my favorite show on air. If you haven't seen it, I completely encourage you to check it out (even if it is on my station's competitor, FOX, Wednesdays at 9).

Every week after the show airs, I find myself oddly reminiscent of high school. I'm not exactly sure why. "Glee" doesn't exactly show high school in the best light. It is stereotypical, type-casting at its worst (or, in this case, its indulgent best). There's the cheerleader clique (always clad in their uniforms, regardless of the time of day or day of the week), the sex-obsessed, trash-talking jocks, and the dorky "Glee" singers. There's very little room for "overlap" in these roles, and just about everyone's goals are less than altruistic.

So in this way, "Glee"-- coincidentally, set in an Ohio high school-- couldn't be more different than my high school. During my teenage years, it wasn't the cheerleaders, but the girls' soccer team that dominated. Our football team was, well, lackluster to say the least (outside of my freshman year, I think we won all of six games). And the combined arts department-- marching band, choir, orchestra-- was so huge (probably 500 students in all), that the homecoming king and queen often came from its ranks. Our class president was a football captain, a National Honor Society member, and went on to Harvard. So my high school was definitely a place where people transcended their labels.

Where did I fall in all this? To this day, I'm not really sure. I wasn't a jock; I was on the varsity swim team (yessir, I was an All-American two straight years, thank you very much!), but swimming wasn't exactly the pinnacle of athletic popularity. I wasn't a "drama geek" (I use that term lightly, because since graduation, I have become a drama "geek"), but I was on the dance team and often performed in front of the entire school in costume. I might have been a nerd, simply because I got good grades, not because I studied. I somehow ended up with three study halls my senior year, and never, ever took work home that entire year. I'm pretty sure that if I had attended the fictional high school in "Glee", I would have been an extra simply passing by in the hall, never to speak a single line or steal a single scene. I've never been described as shy (no where close!), but in high school, I was more than happy to blend into the woodwork. I was ready to get the heck out of there. I knew there was more to life than just the cliques and social ettiquettes of high school. I knew while I could survive in high school, I could thrive in college.

But in a way, I know exactly how Rachel, the lead character in "Glee" feels. She yearns to be included, one of the chosen, golden people who attend every pep rally, travel in packs to weekend parties, and gossip in the halls on Monday mornings. Rachel knows where she fits in, where her niche is, but she strives to break through those social boundaries and be something more, somebody important.


(Me in costume for a local community theatre performance of "Guys & Dolls"-- I was three months pregnant in this photo!)

It's taken me years to understand that who I was in high school no longer defines me. I went on to college at my dream school, where I promptly dismissed whatever "jock" was still inside of me in favor of drama, performing in musicals and every dance group that came my way. I joined a sorority. I surrounded myself with unique and eclectic people who I never would have met had I stayed in the small, midwestern town where I was raised. After college, I uprooted myself again, this time as an adult, and continued my personal evolution. I still love to dance, I still love drama, and I still love meeting new, interesting people. But now, I do it with the confidence I lacked in high school. Now, each and every decision I make is motivated by what will make me happy, not by what will impress the ubiquitous them.

Living life confidentally and joyously-- now, that's real glee.

I am a performer by nature. It's why I've danced since the age of three, always volunteered for my sorority's rush skits, and probably the reason why I began blogging. But lately, I've started performing for a new audience...

A rather small audience...

An audience of just one.

Her-



My "performances" often include singing in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, flapping my arms and dancing around, and contorting my face into odd expressions. Most of the time, I hold these impromptu exploits in the privacy of our own home. Sometimes, however, they become necessary in my car at a red light, or even in a public restroom. That's when my usually-applauded feats get rather bizarre looks from those who may have unintentionally stumbled upon us.

Although the majority of my exhibitions are solos, it isn't unheard of to see me performing a duet or trio. These group pieces are most often done alongside other like-minded (re: crazy) women. Usually, our "troupe" performs behind the lense of a camera. Our actions are never the moments captured on film. They are the stunts that lead to the most-memorable of pictures.

While I was still a veritable novice at this particular type of performance art, my audience of one usually just stared blankly at me. After a few months, my audience became far more receptive to my skills and began smiling back at me. Now, I can usually elicit not only a few hand claps, but sometimes a standing ovation as well. I must be very talented, indeed.

It's my birthday, too.

No, I wasn't born on September 14th. Today is G's first birthday. And although we don't share an actual birthday, G, DH, and I will always share today.

It's hard to believe that the child fast asleep upstairs in her crib was just being born a year ago today. That it was exactly 365 days ago that I first held her in my arms for those brief few minutes before she was whisked away to NICU. You see, G didn't exactly have a typical first week of life. Born with an abnormally high bilirubin count in her blood because of an incompatibility issue with the placenta, she spent nine days in neonatal intensive care before she was discharged. During the first three days of her life, I held her twice for a total of about five minutes. Her daddy didn't get to hold her until she was four days old. It was brutally difficult, but it definitely put what a miracle her birth-- any child's birth, really-- is.




This weekend, amid the parties and the cake and the princess tutu and tiara (you knew I'd have to dress her like the royalty she is!), I found myself getting teary-eyed at the smallest details. Picking out the candle for the top of her birthday cupcake made me misty. Browsing the racks at a children's clothing store-- and seeing the 0-3 month clothes that haven't fit in months and months-- made me nostalgic. But it wasn't until all our family and friends gathered round to sing "Happy Birthday" to my baby... ahem, my toddler... that the waterworks began to flow.




How did we get here? How did this fragile little being grow up right under my nose? I remember all the milestones. I wrote them down! October 29th- her first plane ride to visit family in Texas. January 19th- her first rice cereal. February 22nd- her first tooth. They literally fill a book (and two scrapbooks, and two picture albums). I remember the small moments that nobody writes downs or even photographs. The nighttime feedings when I got to snuggle my sleepy, cuddly baby. Long walks through the neighborhood together. Lazy afternoons on a blanket in the backyard. They are images etched in my mind forever. What baffles me is how quickly it all passed us by. And how much we've changed.

When DH and I decided to start trying to have a child, we thought we were prepared. We'd managed our finances, put our careers in order, and even "tested" our parenting skills on Ducky. But after a year of parenthood, I now realize there's no possible way to prepare for a child. Being a mother or a father requires nothing but on-the-job training. You can't practice things like nursing, all-nighters with a fussy newborn, or changing diapers. You can't rehearse how you'll calm a teething child or react when that same baby throws food in your face. You can't imagine the swell in your heart when that child cozies up against your shoulder, reaches for your hand after a day at work, or gives you a spontaneous kiss. Parenthood is all about adjusting, evolving, growing. In the last year, DH and I have changed and matured just as much as our precious G.



So today is more than just a birthday. It's a family anniversary. It's a reminder of the hallmark moment when two became three, and those three became one. G, your daddy and I are so proud of you. Whether you're fast asleep or babbling up a storm, we look on you with wonderment and joy. Your presence in our life has given new meaning to love, faith, and prayer. DH, thank you for being the most spectacular father to my child. I couldn't have gotten through the past year without your unyielding support and unquestioning love.

Happy birthday, G!



(By the way, has anybody else noticed the little "birthday cake" icon on the blogger sign-in page over the past week? It's made me feel like the website is also celebrating G's birth with us!)

Do you know that Europeans make fun of Americans because of our obsession with football? It's true. They think it's an inhuman, barbaric sport. Instead, they cling to what they call "futball"-- our soccer. In fact, soccer, baseball, and basketball all rank higher than "American Football" in worldwide popularity. But if loving this brutal, violent sport makes me American, then color me red, white, and blue. Maybe it's where I grew up (the heart of the blue-collar rust belt). Maybe it's who I'm married to (a former college football player). All I know is, when the leaves start to turn and there's a crispness to the air you don't find during the summer months, my mind turns to the pigskin. And I. Am. Ready.

As I watched this weekend's college openers (I don't think I saw a single complete game; just bits and pieces during G's naps, as we don't like to have the TV on too much when she's around and awake), I got to thinking about what draws me to this sport. What draws the American public in general. Americans are, by and large, obsessed with sport. In these tough economic times, people will give up their gym memberships, their SUVs, their family vacations, but they are loathe to forgo their season tickets. Why?

At least for me, I think it's because we all want-- need-- something to root for. There are so many ways we're losing out these days-- whether it's a financial loss in the stock market, or too many hours at the office (and away from our families) trying to get back on a solid footing. It's a tough time for a lot of people for a lot of reasons. But having a team to pull for gives us a very healthy outlet for venting some of that steam that can bubble and boil to the surface during the workweek.

And although our actions don't have any impact on the outcome of the game (unless you're that crazy fan who leans over the fence and catches a fly ball that's still in play-- yeah, I'm talking about you, Chicago Cub "fan"), a lot of us-- myself included-- think they do. I've already admitted to being a control freak, and in a way, I think I can "control" a game being played hundreds of miles away by what I do or don't do in my own home. For instance, a few years ago, my favorite NFL team started a hot streak after I got the starting QB's jersey for Christmas. The result? I didn't wash that jersey until they'd safely won the Super Bowl. You want more evidence? I've often forced DH to stay seated on one part of the couch for an entire college game simply because it's his "lucky spot". Yes, I've actually berrated him for moving and "costing us the game". Ridiculous? Yes. But am I the only one who indulges in this kind of wacky behavior? I doubt it.

But usually, those sort of crazy displays are the only way we can have some sort of affect on the game we love. We can't knock our bosses our with a hard tackle in the middle of the office when he doesn't like our latest pitch. We can't blitz our co-workers in the hallway. But we can wear our favorite jerseys, paint our faces, and indulge in our insanely superstitious traditions, all while screaming our heads off at the television. It's our way of participating. When your team wins, it can lift the spirits of an entire state. And these days, we can all use a victory now and then.

It's a little ironic to me that Labor Day falls just a few days before G's first birthday. It gives me a chance to reflect back on the events of one year ago.

If you've ever made it to 40 weeks pregnant, than you have my sympathies. Last year at this time, I was 39+ weeks pregnant and headed for 40 weeks 2 days before I finally got to meet my daughter. I distinctly remember being on the elliptical trainer at the gym at 39 weeks 6 days (my doctor had told me that physical activity could help bring on labor... he lied). The woman on the machine next to me asked when I was due. I said, "Tomorrow". She near about fell off the machine. She spent the rest of her workout eyeing me critically; I think she thought my water would break at any minute and splash her.

The day I reached 40 weeks pregnant, I took this picture:



See the "Where's The Baby?" expression? This was just minutes before DH & I left to go to my 40-week appointment. My OB told me the baby was still floating-- if you've ever slid your nine-month-pregnant body into the stirrups at the OB's office only to hear your doctor say, "Well, she's still floating", then you know exactly how frustrating that word can be. That's when I begged my OB to induce me. He told me they generally didn't induce patients until 41 weeks (ugh!), but that he would strip my membranes. Not to my preggo friends out there: If a doctor ever offers to strip your membranes, RUN THE OTHER WAY. I know I asked for it, but geez, it was painful. But it did the trick. By the end of that day, I was having contractions every 10-15 minutes.

At first, it felt like indigestion. It wasn't so much painful, just uncomfortable. Then, about 12 minutes later, that feeling was back. Then another 12 minutes. And another. And another. After about an hour, I knew: I was in labor. So I woke up DH and told him what I thought was going on. We'd watched a childbirth DVD, and both agreed a natural childbirth was the way to go. Subject our unborn child to the potential pitfalls of an epidural? Heavens, no! Not us! So, those first contractions weren't anything that alarmed us. We knew we were in for the long haul. Our birth plan was clear: labor at home until my water broke. We were naive. Ok, we were stupid.

I tried to go to sleep, hoping to get good rest for what I felt certain lay ahead the very next day. Around 2am on the 281st day of my pregnancy, I awoke with horrible pain in my bulging belly. Breathe, I told myself, breathe. DH was still asleep, and being the strong, confident, in-control laboring woman that I was, I didn't disturb him. Instead, I went into the bathroom and drew myself a hot bath. That would be just the thing to relax me. That's what the lady on the childbirth DVD had said.

LIES! All the bath did was make me sopping wet. I pulled myself out of the tub, toweled off, and hobbled back to the bed to start timing these contractions again. 8 minutes. Still no where near close enough to call the doctor. So I tried my best to get through each painful contraction, but by 5am, it was no use. I calmly told DH it was time to go to the hospital. We ate breakfast (the first sign I wasn't really ready to go to the hospital); we walked the dog (the second sign I wasn't really ready to go to the hospital); I even took the time to fold a load of laundry (the third sign I wasn't really ready to go to the hospital). Then we got in the car, and drove the speed limit all the way to the maternity ward.

Once we arrived, I serenely told the on-call nurse that I was in labor. I think she smirked at me. They took me upstairs, put me in a gown, and hooked me up to a fetal monitor. Then, a nurse came in to check me. 3 cm, 80% effaced. You have GOT to be kidding me. Seven hours of contractions, and I'd only progressed a centimeter from the day before? DH & I walked the halls for seemingly endless hours, hoping gravity would yank baby girl from my loins. No such luck. After five hours in maternity triage, my doctor gave me a vicodin for the pain, a sleeping pill to help me rest, and sent me home.

When we arrived back at the house, I went back to sleep. DH, on the other hand, stayed up to do some errands. Do you remember that scene from "Father Of The Bride Part 2" where Steve Martin keeps taking his wife and daughter to the hospital every night as they think they're in labor, then goes to work during the day as they sleep? That was us. After I awoke from my nap, I ate a chocolate malt and gorgonzola walnut salad from my favorite sandwich shop (the fourth sign I wasn't really ready to go to the hospital). Then I knocked out again into a deep, fitfull sleep.

2am must have been my labor "witching" hour, because that's the time I awoke early on the 282nd (aka, 40 weeks 2 days) day of my pregnancy. But this time, the pains were horrible. Awful. Within minutes, I was lying down on the ground of our bedroom, pounding the floor as each contraction rocked my body. Breathe, I told myself, breathe. Go to your happy place. Envision the beach, a pina colada, and a warm breeze. Relax. Yeah, not gonna happen. After the whole hospital debacle the night before, there was no way I was going back until my water had broken. So as the contractions came five, then four, then three minutes apart, I continued to scream and pound the ground in primordial pain. Finally, DH stepped in. He told me we were going to the hospital, NOW.

This time, we flew out the door without turning off the lights or walking the dog. Along the way, I begged DH to drive as fast as humanly possible, cussing like a sailor all the way. When we arrived, I bolted into the maternity ward between contractions, breathlessly telling the on-call nurse I was in labor. No smirk this time. In an instant, I was upstairs in triage. 6 cm, 100% effaced, baby at station 0. They officially admitted me minutes later.

On the way to my labor and delivery room, the nurse asked if I wanted an epidural. I was torn. I'd sworn up and down my entire pregnancy I would go natural. That I'd be that amazing woman who endured labor without pain medications. That it was what was best for me and the still-unborn G. But in that instant, I snapped. I gave in. I'd been in labor for 32 hours. I took the epidural.

I was in heaven. I was smiling, happy, chatting up the nurses. And then my labor stopped. Sure, the contractions were still there, but they were no longer coming closer and closer together, causing me more and more pain. In the eight hours that followed, I did not progress at all. In fact, I might be the only woman ever to regress, going back to just 5 cm.

And that's when it happened-- the epidural stopped working. Suddenly, I felt every thing. Pelvic pressure, whaaaaa? I was in tears. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I felt was pain, pain, pain. And my water still hadn't broken. Sweet.

The doctor finally broke my water at 2:30pm on September 14th. The final 2+ hours of labor are a blur. I know DH coached me to 10 cm, urging me to use the yoga breathing I'd paid a fortune to learn during my pregnancy. He talked me through each contraction, becoming my hero, until the doctors finally told me it was time to push. I was ready. 40 minutes later, G arrived.



It was the most beautiful moment of my life. Suddenly, all the pain, all the exhaustion melted away. It was just me, my amazing husband, my beautiful new baby girl. It was our new family. And it was totally new. Nothing can prepare you for those first moments. The entire process of conceiving, carrying your child, then laboring to bring that baby into the world is a true miracle. It is purely the hand of God made present in our lives. And now, almost one year later, I still thank God every single night for the blessing of making me a mother.

I got a message from a cousin today-- a cousin I'm ashamed to say I don't know as well as I'd like-- about my blog. She said she wanted to post a comment on it, but because I had changed my settings after "anonymous" ruined my mojo last weekend, she wasn't able to.

That got me thinking about faith. Earlier this week, a good friend wrote on her blog about the importance of having faith, and I realized that sometimes, I have a hard time believing in it. Maybe it's the cynical line of work I'm in (how many other people have to deal with murder, national disasters, hundreds of people losing their jobs, AND a bad 5-day forecast all during a single day?), or maybe I've simply become a glass-half-empty kind of girl. I'm not sure. All I know is, at times, faith is hard to come by around here.

I don't think I used to be that way. I'm pretty sure I used to be a "look on the bright side" person, someone who believed in the goodness of her fellow man (and woman). I yearn to be that way again. I desperately wish I could let go of all the fear that at times paralyzes me into inaction, and be free. Free to hope. Free to dream. Free to trust.

So, I'm changing my privacy settings back. I am going to trust in the greater good of humanity. I'm going to believe that more people have nice things to say than mean things. I'm hoping, that like Jesus said in Matthew 9:22, my faith will heal my hardened heart (Jesus turned and saw her. "Take heart, daughter," he said, "your faith has healed you." And the woman was healed from that moment.) I'm going to have a little faith in me, and in you, too.

Over the past few weeks, a lot of my friends on Facebook have been tagging people as either their "newest" friend, their "oldest" friend, their friend with the "best smile", their "funniest" friend, etc. That got me to thinking... who are the "Golden Girls" in my life?

OK, I am one big nerd here for not only liking, but absolutely loving old Nick-At-Nite re-runs of "Golden Girls". That Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia get me every time. Sure, the show glamorizes senior citizen-living, and undoubtedly bad Miami style circa 1983 (who decorates with all wicker florals anymore?). But who wouldn't want to grow old in the company of your closest friends?

My Blanche- This is a pair of old college friends, who stood next to me on my wedding day as two of my bridesmaids. At times, these friends are a little risque-- they're not afraid what other people think, and dance to the beat of their own drum. I love living vicariously through them out-of-the-ordinary experiences. They've definitely traveled down this road and back again.

My Rose- These are my two closest friends from work. At times, my job can be downright nervewracking, and these two know exactly how to keep me at ease with a quick smile and a "hearty" laugh. Having them in close reach every weekday keep me sane, and also keep me employed! Both of their hearts are definitely true!

My Dorothy- This is a tie between an old friend and a new friend. The first is one of my oldest friends from college, who always levels with me about my life, my choices, and my emotions. She tells it like it is, but always with empathy and compassion. The second is a friend I just met in the past year, but who has already captured a very special place in my life. She and I have a lot in common, and I often get the feeling she knows what I'm thinking before I even say it. These two are my pals and my confidantes.

My Sophia- Obviously, my mother. Growing up, she told me she didn't want to be my friend, that it was her job to be my mother. But as I've grown older, I've found she's the type of person I can trust with anything... and I have told her everything, even things she probably wouldn't want to know about her adult daughter. If I threw a party a party, and invited everyone I knew, the biggest gift would definitely be from her.

But there are so many more... there are the women I have met since having G, who have not only become my friends, but whose children I hope will be G's friends for years go come. There's my old neighbor, who always looks on the brightest side of life. There are all of my college friends, who knew me "back when" and still manage to love me. There are the BBC girls whom I've never met in real life, but who know some of the truest yearnings of my heart.

I wouldn't be the same without all of these "Golden Girls" in my life. They keep me grounded, they enrich my life in so many ways, and even if I don't tell them all the time, I love them all in very different ways. Whether I've known them my entire life or just recently, they've all made a mark on who I am today, and who I strive to be in the future.

So "Girls", how 'bout it? You, me, and a nice house in a Miami-area retirement community in about 40 years? Thank you for being my friend.