By Ellen Ostrow

One of the myths about college professors that persists in the public mind is the notion that once you've finished teaching your classes for the day you have abundant time to fill with whatever suits your fancy. For those of us who understand the rigors of the academic life, the survival of this myth is curious.

In part this myth may be perpetuated by the fact that students often have a very unrealistic picture of the lives their professors lead. To students, teachers teach. What they do when they're not teaching is something students aren't inclined to consider.

We're also a culture that's ruled by the clock. Most American workers work for specified periods of time. Doctors have office hours; lawyers have billable-hour requirements. So it stands to reason that faculty members work during teaching hours, and office hours, and then are free to enjoy their leisure.

Given this myth, it's easy to understand why so many professors who are also parents hear so much faculty-envy. Those who don't understand the rigors of your life wish that theirs were as "easy" as yours. They envy the flexibility of your schedule, the control you exercise over your working life, and your easy availability for your children's parent-teacher conferences, soccer games, music lessons, and school plays. And, in fact, flexibility is often a significant advantage for the scholarly parent. Certainly you have more control over your schedule than someone who has to punch a clock.

But what most people outside academe don't know is that that time away from scholarship does take a real and lasting toll -- it's not just free time. It's time you'll need to make up somehow if you're to keep up with your field and with the profession's ambiguous standards of productivity.

If you happen to complain about how overwhelmed you are to someone unaware of the exigencies of your life, you'll probably meet with skepticism, muffled laughter, and feigned sympathy. It's hard to find people outside academe who can offer the genuine empathy and support you need.

Knowledge workers

In the vocabulary of the new economy, faculty members are "knowledge workers." What's most challenging about your work is the fact that regardless of your teaching schedule, your work has no boundaries -- it is never done. Think about it: When have you ever said to yourself, "I've read every journal, researched every article, and mastered my area so thoroughly that I have nothing else to do?"

Twenty-five years ago when I finished my doctoral comprehensive exams, I had the exhilarating illusion that I had achieved true mastery of my field. It lasted about 10 seconds. My fellow graduate students had the same experience -- perhaps it was some kind of contagious delusion. Nevertheless, I've yet to experience another moment like it.

My own discipline has since splintered into a seemingly infinite variety of subdisciplines, each with its own research literature. Announcements of new journals I "should" read arrive in the mail regularly. In fact, a pile of unopened journals is gathering dust on my desk as I write this.

It's impossible to keep up -- and yet, isn't that what a scholar must do? And if this isn't difficult enough for a scholar without family responsibilities, the impact of those responsibilities on a scholarly parent can be staggering.

The scholarly parent

The Random House Dictionary defines "scholar" as "a learned or erudite person, esp. one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject; a student, pupil." If acquiring complete knowledge of your subject is impossible because it is constantly increasing, then it's natural to conclude that you should always be working. Your work is constantly scrutinized -- by tenure and promotion committees, by journal reviewers and book editors, by your colleagues and your students. You're always at risk of having missed something. And your worst fear is not simply that you'll overlook something, but how embarrassing any particular oversight will be.

On the other hand, you have children to consider. They are changing and growing even more rapidly than your area of expertise. Just when you figure out what to expect from a 5-year-old, your child turns 6. All of the knowledge you've accumulated to date is either obsolete or ephemeral. Your children are forever developing, growing, changing, and learning new information themselves -- and it's your job to adapt to every transition. I once confided in a colleague of mine that I'd recently come up with a strategy that was getting my son to bed on time. But after two weeks of evening bliss, it stopped working. She assured me that this was true for every intervention -- and even worse, that it would always be true. No approach would ever work for very long. I'd have to forever be inventing new ones.

Acceptance

The quandary for the scholarly parent is this: Just when you think you're on top of your scholarship or your parenting, something changes, and you have to play catch-up again.

I am reminded of Camus' version of the myth of Sisyphus in which Sisyphus, who heaved a boulder up the mountain only to watch it fall, returns to retrieve it with a face of "silent joy." "The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart," Camus concludes. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

It's not easy to see that you have any control at all in what appears to be an impossible situation. But in fact, if you understand the ways in which you DO have significant control and choice -- especially over how you define your identity as a scholarly parent -- you can be almost as comforted as Camus' Sisyphus.

Here are some ways to experience control in an uncontrollable situation:

• Accept it. This means embracing the reality that you will never truly master your area of scholarship, just as you will never be a "perfect" parent. Each of us can choose what is "good enough" for us. Your definition of "good enough" may or may not coincide with that of your department chair or a given journal editor. Every choice has consequences, and some are difficult. But the consequences are easier to bear if you keep in mind that you made a choice. Sisyphus knew what he'd done to anger the gods -- and their sentence did not make him regret it.

  Accepting the futility of trying to be a "perfect" parent means coming to terms with your limits as the particular human being you happen to be. In fact, this is good practice for parenting since your children will need the very same acceptance from you that you practice giving to yourself.

  Acceptance requires humor -- the ability to laugh at yourself and at the absurdity of your task. Once you accept the impossibility of what you're trying to do, you can begin to set achievable goals: Which article will you write next? What kind of fun do you want to share with your son? What do you want to teach your daughter?

• Emphasize the other definition of scholar, i.e., a student or pupil. What if you brought a student's frame of mind to your interactions with your child? Each interchange with your child is an opportunity to learn something about this new person -- since she's not quite the same person you thought you knew yesterday. Try approaching your children as if you were meeting them for the first time and had no expectations. It's an extraordinary experience to do this, full of wonder and discovery, regardless of how old your child is.

• Consider being scholarly about the discipline of parenting. Our knowledge of child development and effective parenting is changing and growing as quickly as any other academic area. Even if you radically accept that you'll never know enough about this field either, there's still much to learn. It's very empowering to have developmentally appropriate expectations of your child. Knowing that your tantruming, noncompliant 4-year-old is acting "just like a 4-year-old" can be very comforting. Anyway, from his perspective, you're probably acting "just like a parent" -- and he's not impressed that you're a scholar.