Balancing Act

Making Time

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By Julia Goode

In the words of the musician Joe Walsh, I can't complain, but sometimes I still do. I feel very fortunate as a mother of two to have a job with as much flexibility as my tenure-track position teaching law.

Being married to a lawyer and having once practiced law myself, I know that unless I had a medium-sized domestic staff, I would not have been able to both raise my children -- a 5-year-old daughter and a 2-year-old son -- and make partner at the mega-size law firm where I worked.

I also know that nonfaculty employees at my university do not have the same flexibility in their schedules between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. as I do -- to volunteer for my children's class parties and field trips, watch swimming practice, and enjoy the occasional beautiful spring afternoon. I don't punch a time clock or have to take sick leave or even have a nosy supervisor.

My time is my own. And that's the problem. Especially in the summer.

Like other tenure-track professors, I am required to produce published scholarship. In my field, that work can be done anywhere there is a computer, an Internet connection, and a printer. I don't need a lab, and I don't need teams of research assistants.

I do need time. Time to do the research, time to read what I find, time to analyze, and time to write. The unwritten rule at my law school is that faculty members should produce one scholarly article a year, with said article being between 30,000 and 40,000 words, not including copious footnotes. Generally, the large blocks of time necessary for that kind of effort come only in the summer, when I'm not teaching. That time does not necessarily have to take place between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., but it has to take place at some point during the summer weeks.

Given, then, that I'm on my own time, my public persona in the summer gets a little complicated, maybe even schizophrenic. Let me give you some background.

For some time now, I've been playing both sides of the Mommy Fence with the other mothers in the neighborhood. For whatever reason, I feel some pressure to present an image to those mothers and to others at my kids' school of a mom who is not a workaholic or even a full-time member of the work force.

When asked if I work full time at the university, I always fill my reply with disclaimers about how flexible my schedule is, and how I can always pop over to the school if I need to be there. I run myself ragged during the academic year, trying to fulfill my professional duties of classes, committee work, workshops, and publishing, while also volunteering to be the gym helper on Fridays at 9:45 a.m. Host the classroom Thanksgiving feast at 11 a.m.? Teacher-appreciation breakfast at 9 a.m.? Play date after school? No problem.

Of course, the problem is that I pay for all this "popping over" with late nights spent prepping for my own classes.

In the summer, it's even worse. I brace myself when other mothers ask me, "So, are you teaching this summer?" I know that if I answer truthfully that I'm not teaching this summer, they will expect me and the kids to be available on a moment's notice for walks to the ice-cream shop or sprinkler games.

So I try to explain that even though I'm not teaching, I am still "working" and that I need to do research and write an article during the summer. That obligation never sounds substantive enough for a nonacademic to understand that I might not be available for weekly park outings on Thursday mornings.

Other moms seem surprised and dismayed to learn that even though I'm not teaching this summer, my children are signed up for camp five days a week. So I fill my answers with more disclaimers about how my schedule is very flexible and how we're always available for an afternoon here or there. Then I rob Monday night to pay for Monday's trip to the zoo with a playmate and her mom. Or more accurately, I rob January, nearly killing myself trying to finish my article for submission March 1, to pay for the June that I will spend with my kids in the park.

Admittedly, summer outings and my pathological need for social acceptance among peer mothers aren't the only suspects in the case of my missing time. Because my husband has clients and other lawyers demanding his attention at specific times and intervals, most interruptions in the schedule fall on me. Whenever our children are too sick to go to school, whenever they have dentist appointments or whenever the heater breaks, I'm the person who stays home to handle the unexpected. Carpet cleaning, furniture delivery, car maintenance, school holidays -- those 8 a.m to 5 p.m. intrusions fall to me.

Individually, the division of labor makes sense. If someone has to take the dog to the vet, my husband's absence will be noticed at his law firm. My absence will not make the piles of unread law-review articles even raise an eyebrow. But in the aggregate, the individual diversions can take a huge bite out of my course prep and research time.

I generally appreciate the fact that producing legal scholarship is a solitary effort. I don't have to worry about others pulling their weight or finishing their piece so I can start on mine. I work at my own pace, on my own time. I don't have a senior partner or a supervisor calling me every day asking me where I am on a certain project. No one is watching.

The downside is that I have no daily or weekly deadlines to push me or keep me on track. I have a six-year deadline that requires marathonlike pacing. Unless I am extremely self-disciplined, I could wake up the year before my tenure vote having written nothing. Obviously, that is extreme. But come mid-July, more than once I have realized that I've done very little research in the previous six weeks and the new semester is rapidly approaching.

At the end of the school year, I decided to engage in an experiment. A self-centered, heartless experiment. At my daughter's school, a final end-of-the-year party was scheduled to be held at a nearby park at 10:15 a.m. It would cap off three weeks of midday, end-of-the-year concerts, lawn picnics, sports days, and mother's-day teas. Volunteers were needed to supervise the walk to the park for the party.

I swallowed hard and chose not to volunteer. I fearfully told my daughter the morning of the party that although some other mothers were going to the park, I would not be there. I waited for the tears to well up in her trusting, loving eyes, but the tears never came. "OK," she said, and that was it.

I went to my office and put in a full day of research on my next article. No one called; no one made a notation in my permanent record. I felt a little guilty, but I got over it once I realized that having made some progress during the day, I was free to go home and relax with my family in the evening.

When I picked my daughter up that evening, I asked her how the party went. I felt divine reassurance for my decision to stay at work when she told me that because it was raining, the class stayed at school and had free time.

So I went ahead and registered my kids for day camp five days a week this summer. I'll force myself not to feel guilty and to reform my expectations for the summer. But I'll bet we'll make it to the Thursday morning play group a few times, too.