I've said, many times, that motherhood is like middle school: to get through it alive, you need a friend. Just one.
That's absolutely true. It's true of everything, really. Exams. Your grandmother's cancer. The inevitable but still somehow soul-crushing break-up with the guy whose eyes are unbelievably blue. (His name wasn't really William. That was his middle name. KSB, you'll figure it out if you really think about it.)
One true friend is all you need, and I have two. Two call-me-any-time-even-if-I-just-got-the-baby-to-sleep friends. They're the ones--the only ones--I can complain to about 1977 without them judging him or bringing up the complaint three weeks later when I say he's a saint.
We kept in touch in New Zealand. We keep in touch via phone (and I HATE the phone, so that's saying something.) We send text messages.
But it's not the same. They're not here. No one is *here*. I'm living in Seattle without a single friend, let alone someone right next door who could gab over tea for hours. Where is she? My new buddy must be somewhere nearby, but there's no divining rod for that.
I blog rarely, because I'm busy writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: