Oh, How Times Have Changed.

This weekend, one of my best friends in the whole world came to visit for a Girls' Weekend.

In the old days, a visit like this one might have become a spur-of-the-moment trip to Chicago. Certainly it would have included a long afternoon spent convincing each other to buy things we didn't need, followed by an evening of booze-fueled conversation.

And the next morning? Would have found us sleeping till noon before heading out for a greasy breakfast (the best hangover cure I know).

Yeah, that was then. And now?

Well, on Friday, our hello hug was cut short by my embarrassed realization that I was covered in baby vomit.

The evening that followed consisted of me running up the stairs to check Tori's temperature, running back down to ask if I should put a blanket on her/open her window/wake her up to give her more Tylenol/call the doctor before dashing back up to continue to stare at her with a worried frown.

We did have an adventure the next day. We went to see a movie. In the theater. The first I'd seen in that environment since, well, Tori was born. And we shopped, too. For a little while. At Target.

But I yawned all the way through the film, and was too worried about the babe to even look at clothes.

And yesterday? We went on an actual road trip. To a town a whole 45 minutes away. With the baby in the back, the hub in the driver's seat and a stroller in tow.

It was a great day. A wonderful visit. A weekend full of laughter and fun. An awesome Girls' Weekend, to be sure.

But the me of five years ago? Is still wordlessly shaking her head at me, wondering what on earth happened to the Amber she knew.

Hey Buddy, My Eyes Are Up Here!

At work, I'm surrounded by talk of boobs. There's the maternity campaign I'm working on. And the breast cancer campaign. And the girl who just had a boob job. And the myriad of crass boob jokes that go along with working in an ad agency.

Even so, I'm generally not all that aware of my own. Boobs, that is. Since having Tori they've become utilitarian things. Utilitarian things that require a lot of under wire and gravity defying support devices to look like even a shadow of their former selves.

Which is why, when the guy behind the counter at the sandwich shop took my order while ogling my chest, I became instantaneously paranoid.

Did I have a button undone?

Had I forgotten to put on a bra?

Was there some weird stain on my chest?

Was I having a freakish moment of out-of-nowhere lactation?

A quick look down assured me that no, none of these things was taking place. And still the guy stared.

What in God's name was he looking at? Had I sprouted a third nipple?

Somehow, I stammered out the rest of my order, face flushing beet red.  As my arms crossed protectively over my chest, he finally looked up - and had the good grace to look mildly ashamed of himself.

But not enough to keep his gaze at eye level.

Finally, I turned away, pretending to stare with intense fascination at the freezer case full of hams. So intense, in fact, that the guy had to ask me three times if I needed anything else before I heard him.

I mutely shook my head no, arms still clamped across my boobs. And at that point, the universe decided to have mercy on me. Mr. Ogleton headed to the back, leaving another, much less disconcerting employee to ring me up.

It was only later, when I was driving back to the office, that it occurred to me I should be flattered. Someone not required by law to find me attractive had clearly found my chest at least a little bit impressive.

I'm going to go ahead and take that as a compliment...and as an excuse to splurge on Victoria's Secret bras more often.

Owning My Beauty.

This morning when I looked in the mirror, I said, "hello, beautiful." And then I snorted.

So I tried again. “I said, hello, gorgeous.” My reflection eyed me warily, but didn’t respond.

“You really are beautiful. A beautiful woman.”  This time, I couldn’t help the roll of my eyes.

You see, I’ve never been comfortable with my appearance. Never been able to love the skin I live in.

Even as a little girl, I knew I didn’t look quite right. I just wasn’t sure why. The twirly skirts, the pigtails tied with bows…I loved them. But the playground teasing I endured assured me I had it wrong.

Then, as a teenager, I wore glasses, had acne and a mouthful of braces. I was short, had an odd sense of style and struggled with my weight. That, of course, was a recipe for disaster. Especially when coupled with an innate shyness and a tendency to hide my nose in a book.

Eventually, though, I came out the other side. The braces came off, the glasses gave way to contacts, and the acne…subsided. And I? Became a not-too-terrible-looking human being.

But the damage was done. I couldn’t see the reality of what was staring back at me in the mirror. I could only see what I lacked. 

Instead of the pretty blue eyes, I saw only the crooked nose.

Instead of the fantastic smile, I saw only the stained teeth.

My boobs were too big. My thighs were too large. Even my feet were too wide.

I was a melting pot of flaws.

Now, of course, I look back and think, “you idiot. Why didn’t you appreciate what you had?”

And then I go back to beating my self-confidence into the ground.

But that has to end. And it has to end now. As I’ve already mentioned a time or five (million), I have a daughter now. And, as I’ve also said, she needs a strong, self-confident role model.

So, I’m trying to see myself for the wonderful human being I am, flabby belly, chubby thighs and all.

That belly is poochy because it performed a miracle.

Those thighs are supported by some damn fine calves.

I have a fantastic smile.

I have pretty blue eyes.

I am strong.

I am smart.

I am sexy.

I am beautiful.

This post was written for the first Bloggers and Tiaras challenge at MomDot. The task? Define what beauty means to you. If you think I've done a good job, you might want to head on over there and vote for me. There's some serious bling at stake. And I? Would really like some pretty pearls to go with my tiara.

Adventures in Girl Land: The Hair Edition.

I've never been very good at being a girl. I mean, sure, I like to wear skirts, have a serious shoe fetish and cry at weddings. But I'm not good at girl stuff. You know, like putting on makeup. Or picking out accessories to match my outfits. Or doing my hair.

Especially the hair thing. After twenty years of battling acne, I figured out how to do a passable job of "putting on my face" as my mom always called it. But my hair? Has pretty much always been a bit of a disaster.

In high school, which I attended at the height of bad perms and mall bangs, I tried to fit in.  I got the perm, attempted to curl the bangs...but on me, it never looked quite right.

In college, I cut it all off. Got myself a pixie cut. It looked kinda cute...but I still hadn't grasped the concept of styling products. So it was always just a little bit off.

Over the years, I've gotten better. I've also gotten better at picking easy-to-manage hairstyles. Hairstyles that take nothing more complex than a little flat ironing. Until last week. Last week, in a fit of, "oh man, I look like a mom. I don't want to look like a mom," I got myself a haircut with lots of layers, requiring lots of product and more intense "styling."

So you know what I did today? I spent 60 bucks on styling tools. Got myself a real ceramic straightening iron and a fancy shmancy ionic hair dryer (whatever the hell that means). I even got myself some product.

I'm hoping these magic tools will help me go from clueless schlub to hairstyling pro...or at least someone who looks like she knows what she's doing.  Think it'll work?

Do me a favor. Don't answer that.