An article headlined "Admitting to Mixed Feelings About Motherhood" (published May 12 - Mother's Day, get it?) reports that a number of recent books are breaking a taboo against discussing the downsides of raising children: "the drudgery of child care, the isolation of the playground and (women's) loss of identity." For instance, Naomi Wolf's new book, "Misconceptions: Truth, Lies and the Unexpected on the Journey to Motherhood," discusses the lack of support for new mothers and how parenting can erode a marriage.

These kinds of articles usually annoy me, because they make grand generalizations about tens of millions of people's lives based on the publication of a few books. But I read this one with keen interest, because it struck a nerve. It's only recently, well into the second year of my daughter's life, that I've been able to admit that my experience of motherhood is not always fun. Somehow whenever I'd say to myself, "Gee, I know the kid needs to get outside, but I don't really feel like going to the park," I'd hear the faint "beep beep beep" of a dump truck backing up behind me and dumping a full load of guilt on my head. I imagined the pediatrician seeing her the next visit and exclaiming, "Don't you ever take this child outside? She's not metabolizing any vitamin D! Besides that, her arms are flabby and she doesn't play well with others!" Pretty soon I'd be filling up the stroller basket with sand toys and dragging her off to Lincoln or Krusi, whether she wanted to or not.

I always imagined all the other mothers skipping merrily to the park with their charges, excited by watching their little ones learn to go down the slide and deeply gratified to be allowed to cater to their needs. Maybe I got that impression because we're so afraid to be judged unfit by other mothers that we make sure the kids are wearing their best, clean outfits and we advertise how hard we work and how little we expect in return. Sure, everyone complains about the lack of sleep and cleaning up messes all day long. But what about the really hard part - losing that streak of independence or mischief or sarcasm that we nurtured in our middle 20s, the part that let us know who we were? If all we are now is someone who takes care of others, do we exist as individuals? If a mother falls over from exhaustion on the kitchen floor, does anyone hear her go "thump"?

What really scared me about taking on the mantle of sainted motherhood was that I suddenly turned into a domestic giving machine. It wasn't enough to make sure my baby had her needs met; suddenly I felt responsible for washing the floors and pleasing the hubby. This will be vastly entertaining to anyone who knew me as a single woman. Let's just say that cleaning the house was well below traveling, seeing movies, doing the Sunday crossword and searching for the perfect vegetarian burrito on my personal priority list.

I feel myself swinging back on that family life pendulum. Hopefully I won't swing too far and end up leaving Katie in the sandbox while I head to the Mission for a foreign flick and some Mexican food. Surely there's some middle ground between sainthood and irresponsibility. Part of the answer, I think, is making more of an effort to let my husband or some other caregiver watch the kid while I do something that makes me feel like myself, whatever that might be. But the other part is letting ourselves be a little more real with each other about motherhood. It's OK to get bored singing "Twinkle Twinkle" for the 14th time. That doesn't mean it wasn't great fun and a genuine thrill to connect with your child for the first 12 times. But let's admit that sometimes we'd rather be doing something else. You can tell me, I can keep a secret. I'll be the one sitting on the park bench near the sandbox, working a crossword.