10 a.m. I'm in a committee meeting. We're doing something terribly important, but I've forgotten what it is. I should review my lecture slides. We make a little progress. Did I RSVP for the birthday party on Saturday? I agree to write up part of a report. I need to buy a good present for a 6-year-old.
11 a.m. I'm meeting with a Ph.D. student. And then another. I eat a hasty lunch while we talk. We review ongoing projects, we rejoice over beautiful data, we puzzle over surprises. This is fun. We analyze data and design new experiments. Did I print out that paper I need to review? Did I reschedule the pediatric dentist?
12 p.m. I'm teaching, lecturing, guiding, discussing. From the front of the class I can pretend rapt attention, a sea of engaged learners. (From the back I would see the screens on social media, the barely concealed smartphones.)
1 p.m. Still teaching. I finish my lecture. I finish discussion. The class is dismissed. My phone vibrates. Panic. Not one of the kids' schools. Relief. I let it go to voicemail.
2 p.m. Office hours for my undergraduate lecture course. I settle into some writing. I'm interrupted by an earnest student with a page full of questions. I remember why the relevant experiment is so cool, I explain with poetic mastery, with passion, with unmatched clarity. My eloquence is breathtaking, the scribbles on the whiteboard are a thing of beauty. The student is unmoved, remains confused. I like this student. The second student is grumpy and indignant -- upset about a grade. The grade is appropriate. I do not like this student. There is no third student. The grant report is not due today. But what about the fellowship application? I answer some emails. Was the little one supposed to take a favorite book to school today, or is that tomorrow? I add the committee report to my to-do list.
3 p.m. I'm meeting with a postdoctoral researcher in my lab. We discuss the peer reviews we've just received for a paper we submitted to an academic journal. Reviewer 1 is lovely; Reviewer 2 is sensible; Reviewer 3 is insane. (It's usually Reviewer 2 who is insane.) We devise a strategy to revise the paper, we check in on the other 2,000 projects we're trying to complete, we run out of time. I need to check the kids again for lice. Do we have a plan for dinner?
4 p.m. I ignore my escalating email and return to the paper I'm writing. Forty-five splendid minutes speed by; it's time to pick up the kids. I didn't write the fellowship application. It's due tomorrow. Did we figure out a plan for dinner?
5 p.m. I retrieve two bouncy kids, joyful until they start bickering in the back seat of the car. I forgot to respond to that email. They can't agree on a song to sing. I didn't post next week's readings to the course website. Now they're best friends, enchanted by the wild turkeys we just spotted. We all sing "Old MacDonald Had a Farm," the kids take turns choosing farm animals. I've figured out the right way to run that experiment — I should email my student tonight. We arrive home. Is tonight a bath night?
6 p.m. My husband has cooked Mexican food. I eat bites between filling water cups, asking questions, advocating beans and broccoli. I should book my flight for that conference. We talk about our days. Is it a bath night? We negotiate dessert. Where's bunny?
7 p.m. It is a bath night. I'm ready to go to sleep. We dry wet kids, find pajamas, brush, cuddle, read, sing, coax into bed. Where's bunny?
8 p.m. The kids are wakeful in bed. We find bunny; the little one is in raptures. We find teddy; the older one is appeased. I keep my ears to the ground as we collect laundry, clear dishes, prep lunches, clean floors, find the little one's favorite book to take to school tomorrow. Can I sleep yet? The little one needs to pee; her sister wants more water.
9 p.m. The kids are finally asleep. I email my student the experiment idea. I book my conference travel. I open the document with the paper I'm working on. Can I sleep yet? I close it again. We didn't check the kids for lice. I update my to-do list. I need to write that committee report. I get ready for bed.
10 p.m. In bed, I read fiction to clear my mind. Can I sleep yet? I turn out the lights. I need to RSVP for that party. I try to go to sleep. I need to write that report. I sleep.
2 a.m. The little one is yelling. Do I have to get out of bed? She's wriggled out of her blankets. I cover her and rub her back. Can I sleep yet? She goes back to sleep.
5 a.m. That periodic thumping noise is the 6-year-old practicing handstands against the wall of her room. Really? I send her back to bed.
6 a.m. I'm yanked from sleep by the little one calling from her room. "Mommy! Is it time to wake up yet?" We need to remember that book for school. I struggle out of bed. Is the fellowship application due today? A new day begins.