Ok, I resigned. I've been on leave ever since David was born over a year ago, but I made it official. I sent in my letter of resignation. I sent a good-bye email to the entire campus. I wrote 37 personal notes to my friends and colleagues. I have resigned my position as a full-time, tenured, community college writing instructor.

Let's all take a deep breath and let that sink in.

Now, I've got to be careful. The puritan work ethic in me thinks I'm a lazy bum who is just trying to lie around watching Dancing with the Stars and eating bonbons. (I thought Joey Fatone was charming, much to my surprise.) Ms. "You are a total slacker if you aren't grading twenty papers in the next five hours" is itching to find me some new work and fast. But, she doesn't want me to get paid well. She doesn't care if I do work that matches my interests and training. She's the one who was eying the "help wanted" sign at Taco Del Mar—I think I'd like making burritos, and look, free chips.

And if I'm not working for money, Ms. "You are such a wimp I can barely stand to be in the same room with you" is breathing down my neck to be Supermom. No naps for you missy, Supermom never sleeps. Think you are going to read the mail over lunch? Supermom would never take her eyes off her charming child. She'd gaze lovingly at his yogurt-covered face as she spooned in the peas. Perhaps she'd croon a little toon or say "yummy" after each bite even though she hates peas. Super Mom is not allowed to hate peas.

I try to tell my work ethic all about the poopy diapers I've changed today, the nursing, the cold wet walk to get the baby asleep, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough for her, but here is the sacrilege she doesn't want to hear:

I am allowed to write.

I am allowed to go on dates with my partner.

I am allowed to go on dates with friends.

I am allowed to get a massage.

I am allowed to live at a stress level lower than extreme.