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.