‘I’m not worried about his health, he looks healthy,’ shrugged the boy’s father Mohammad Rizal.

Two-year-old Ardi Rizal, who was given his first cigarette when he was 18-months-old, throws a tantrum when his parents refuse him a cigarette

So there I am cleaning him, disinfecting the floor when I remember we are dog sitting. I get the dog out the door for a little walk.

Come back, negotiate breakfast, the kids settle on bagels & cream cheese with a side of fruit (strawberries, blackberries and raspberries — this is important to Tobias, b/c they all have the word “berry” in their name). Get them dressed. Plop them in front of the TV for Spongebob Square Pants to buy me enough time to make lunches, gather up the dirty clothes and hop in the shower.

I then dial-in for my 8 a.m. conference call, put the phone on mute while I dress, check on the kids, and start packing everything up.

I put on their shoes and coat. Grab the backpacks, my bag, the dirty laundry. Clean the dishes. Turn off the TV. Herd the boys to the garage and into the car where they both insist I help them with their seat belts even though they are both more than capable of doing it themselves.

I am still on the call.

I start the washing machine. Get in the car. Drive the kids to the first school drop off. Take both boys into the school, sign Caleb in, watch him find a friend to ask to play. Take Tobias back to the car, strap him in, drive to the coffee shop. The street is really noisy, I am afraid it will be my turn to speak at any second, so we stay in the car a bit longer.

I can’t take it anymore. Tobias is talking non-stop about Harry Potter. We run out, order coffee and donuts at Dynamo where we stand in a long line behind no less than 4 men in their early forties with longish out of control curlyish hair, ducati-style leather jackets, tightish jeans — the early middle age hipster as opposed to the twenty-something hipster. Get back in car. Still on the call.

After an hour of having the earphones on, listening to others rambling on during their part and the laughing in between speakers, the call disconnects before I get a chance to speak. The phone system doesn’t let me back in when I try to redial.

I phone my boss who says “too bad you missed the call.”

This happens two or three times a week. Every week.

I went to my first ever Pro Beach Volleyball tournament this weekend. Many tons of sand were trucked to Pier 32 on San Francisco’s Embarcadero. (Surprisingly close, as it turns out, to my new office over near the ballpark. This way I got to see the clean-up operation. Interesting.)

One of the matches I was most impressed with was the duo of Kerri Walsh and Rachel Wacholder. They won the round I watched (against some very strong Brazilian players), but didn’t win the tournament unfortunately. What was most amazing to me, sitting on the sidelines, was knowing that both Walsh and Wacholder are breastfeeding babies they had less than 3 months ago. Of course none of the coverage mentions this. And why should they? It is not a handicap. Though… it kind of is. (One thing I miss about France? Pregnant lady and cars with small children parking right up front with the handicap spots).

Imagine being in that broiling sun, warming up for an hour or so, then playing a 3 set game where you basically jump as high as you can over and over and over. In sand. And if you are a mom, now imagine it with your 3 month-old baby on the sidelines. Oy vey.

Note: For those of you who don’t understand the breastfeeding angle (Shanan), babies of this age normally eat every hour or so. If they don’t, you are wishing they did. But you are in pain either way. Jumping up and down in a skimpy bikini between feedings is a feat in it’s own right. And playing at the professional level these women were is simply amazing.

Needless to say, I didn’t look anything like Farrah after they cut my nappy hair back to an inch long. I cried for days and hid in the bathroom at school. She sure had good hair. RIP Farrah.

My version, around the same time: