In Which Kanga is Thankful

I work at a company that promotes itself as "family-friendly." That may be, but the executive leadership was certainly in for a shock last spring when not one, not two, but FIVE of its female employees, several in senior positions, traipsed into the COO's corner office to announce impending babies. Around the same time, a male employee stuck his head in to mention that his wife was pregnant, too.

April through June of last year must have been a challenging time for these bosses.

As the dust settled, I found myself with five new friends (a former employee returned to town and quickly -- efficiently! -- gave birth in order to join our motley crew).

I had known all of the women before in a professional capacity. All were -- are! -- capable, insightful, intelligent. Some intimidated me. I respected all of them highly.

But now...we are moms together, walking around with barf on our shoulders at the same time that we shape a client strategy, changing diapers at 4 am with the same deftness that we bring to a creative brief.

I feel extremely fortunate. So many new mothers are thrust into the fretful niveau of the "moms' group," with nothing in common with other women except hey, we all have babies....ummm...awkward silence descends.

But me? I got to meet these women first in a professional capacity, present ideas with them, drink and dance with them at the infamous holiday party, grab burgers with them.

We vetted each other first, when we were our "old selves." And now -- now we are so much more, those old selves enhanced and dimensionalized, but never erased.

In Which Kanga Expounds on Poop

Today I got together with four other women from my company, all of whom gave birth within six or eight weeks of each other. As always, it was a lot of fun and included tips on un-freezing milk, mentions of new cloth diaper advances, an Amazing Rolling Baby (tip of the hat to young C.V.) and an excellent photo session in which I inadvertently let someone else's daughter plunk sideways on the couch.

The most intriguing moment for me came when someone put forth the opinion that babies'...discards...at this age smell like either buttered popcorn or oatmeal. Both ideas sounded nuts to me -- it all just smells like formula to my nose -- but a few moments ago J filled her diaper, and I must admit:

Buttered popcorn, baby.
Really.

In Which Eeyore is Contemplative

I stumbled across the web page for my 20th high school reunion (20th reunion, not 20th high school...though I was an Air Force brat, we didn't move around THAT much).

It hit me hard. At first I spent an hour reviewing the weight gain, baldness, striking beauty and overall change of my classmates then and now. Then I clicked on "In Memory."

Of the five classmates who were listed as deceased, I had only been aware of one death -- a suicide that, I am chastened to say, did not surprise me when it happened. But the other four shocked me. At that point, despite the other offerings on the site, I was really only able to focus on finding the reason for their deaths.

That information isn't listed on what is intended (and succeeds) as a warm and upbeat site. But it's still bothering me.

Partially because of the field I work in, I sometimes get into a snit if "big news" happens and I'm not the first to find out. This self-centeredness in me is ugly, especially when viewed in light of the bigger issue: the disastrous events of these people's passing.

And yet...how could I not have known? How could we not have known? I'd like to think that the flip side of my self-indulgent failing is a keen sense of how my high school community could have helped surviving family members, had we been aware.

In Which Piglet Entertains a Houseguest

For the last two days my best friend from college has been visiting. She is an Episcopal priest living in Boulder, CO. It's been a complete joy having her here, and in many ways we picked up right from the last time we saw each other.

She married my husband and me in August 2000, and prior to that she and I hiked Moab together, visited Aspen and spent time hanging around the Denver area. Prior to THAT, back in the bad old days, we were roommates at Dartmouth. We made quite a combo. I slept till 11 am every day, was often drunk, and paraded through a confusing series of male visitors. She rose at six am every day to run or swim, baked her own bread, and never took a drink.

We went swimming today, and I realized how motivated and disciplined she has always been about fitness -- she looks essentially the same as she did in 1990 -- and how hard I will have to work to shoehorn exercise into the weeks ahead.