For months, I dreaded facing how my diaries would add up. I was afraid they'd show that I don't work very hard, because I never feel I've accomplished enough. Or they'd show that I don't spend enough time with my children. Or that I fritter my time away. A deadline finally forced me to face those fears. Fairly quickly, I discovered that my anxiety is fueled by the fact that I do very little in chunks of concentrated time. Instead, my days are chopped up like little bits of time confetti. Gathering all those fragments together, I found an average of about 50 hours of work a week, sometimes more, sometimes slightly less. I slept an average of six hours a night. If you count worrying, I spent just about every waking hour multitasking. In addition to the load of laundry thrown in, the cooking and the grocery shopping, I found nearly an hour, every day, spent somewhat obsessively "tidying up." One week, when I worked at home because of a child-care crisis, out of the 73 hours that my children were awake and out of school, I spent all but seven in their presence. Granted, it wasn't all quality time ("Shut the door! Mommy's working!"), but I was there. And most weeks I did find the 28 hours or so of free time that Robinson had found -- generally 6.25 hours watching movies and "Saturday Night Live" on TV, six hours reading, 5.75 hours exercising and 5.4 hours mucking around on the computer among them -- but typically only about half of those hours actually felt like leisure.