It's the day after.
The New Orleans Saints now have been Super Bowl Champions for a whole day. We've all pinched ourselves and haven't woken up.
We turned out, 30,000 strong, to greet the team at the airport. My own sister-in-law and niece were in that number.
We saw all the fingerprints and all the lip prints on the Lombardi Trophy, still clutched in the fist of our coach.
We saw our hero, Drew Brees, visit Mickey and Minnie in Disney World then fly up to New York to yuk it up with David Letterman -- who is from Indiana.
And we heard, over and over again, how this was a team of destiny. How this was all God's plan.
We all looked for signs. And there were plenty.
There was the thing with the number 4, and the thing with the number 9. There was the fact that the last four teams to wear white won. Somewhere in our brains we found reassurance in them, confirmation that, despite the dire predictions of the NFL "experts," we did have a chance.
And there was the good-guy quarterback with the destroyed shoulder who had a choice to play in New Orleans or in Miami...where this year's Super Bowl was being played.
I am not a religious person. I'm more of a casual church goer, making my way to Sacred Heart because I'm supposed to and because I want to be part of the church family with my husband and my child. I wouldn't say I'm devout.
But sometimes you just have to believe.
But that's because I am the woman who was desperate to become a mother and could not have a child. I am the woman who had a woman who had made me a promise change her mind the same week my husband's family was giving me a surprise baby shower, 19 days before the date circled on my calendar.
I am the woman nicknamed Lo who took a random phone call from a woman named Lodrigue and knew in her gut that there was a reason why. Then convinced her husband.
And I am the woman who became the mother of a daughter who is so like me that it is frightening. And I believe that I was destined to be her mother all along.
They say everything happens for a reason. If I hadn't been infertile, I would not have become the mother of this wonderful, extraordinary, incredible child. And yes I believe that it was all a part of God's plan.
So let us believe that this was too. That a town still struggling to its knees from the knock-down from Hurricane Katrina four years ago was due for something good, something wonderful, something special in Super Bowl 44, the year we elected the 44th president.
And let us believe that our No. 9 was better than the guy born and bred in New Orleans, whose father had been our previously most beloved quarterback, and whose jersey No. 18 added up to 9.
And let us believe that this was fate and destiny.
Or just dumb luck.
We'll take it either way.