There, I said it. It isn't easy being a mother; but to claim to be a good mother while admitting to one of the most vilified vices in America, well, I can practically feel the breeze from people shaking their heads in disagreement.

Let me explain. I am what is known in the medical community as an intermittent smoker. This means that I smoke less than a pack of cigarettes a day. Actually, I smoke about three cigarettes a day. I smoke outside or in the smoking section of my local coffee shop. (I live in Missouri, which is consistently behind national trends: It is still legal to smoke in many restaurants and bars here.)

I do not smoke around my children. I do not have sex around my children either, but I do not think I am a bad mother because I enjoy sex.

I have three sons, ages 3, 4 and 7. I stay home with my children, and sometimes I need a break from the tantrums, the squabbling, the mess and the persistent demands for juice. Some mothers eat chocolate; I step outside for a smoke.

Often I have to wait until late afternoon, when the kids are allowed to watch a video. (We do not have television reception.) When all of them are settled with the afghan tucked around their toes, I go into my bathroom closet and pluck a cigarette from my gold-plated case, grab my lighter and head out to the sunshine of my back deck. There, I spend a peaceful few minutes, sometimes with coffee, enjoying the serenity of my backyard and the taste of my cigarette.

People say to me, "Why do you have to ruin going outside by smoking?" and "It's such a vulgar, stinky habit. How can you do it?" And these are valid questions.

I like having a cigarette outside for a number of reasons. For one thing, it is its own little timer. When the smoke is done, it's back to the laundry and the dirty dishes. Tucking my butt into the water-filled yogurt cup I use as my ashtray marks the end of my time alone. Smoking is, for me, an adult-only activity. I go outside with my children, too, but when I go out with my cigarette, I actually get a break.

Also, smoking has memories for me. I first smoked with two of my roommates at Brigham Young University. We could have been expelled for it (since BYU is governed by Mormons), and of course that was part of the appeal. Smoking reminds me of those youthful college days driving out to ice-covered Utah Lake and looking across the frigid landscape at the mountains in the days before I really had responsibilities.

I did not smoke again on a regular basis until my second child was colicky. I quit when I became pregnant with my third child, and then started again to relieve the pressures of having a 4-year-old, a 1-year-old and a newborn.

Smoking also reminds me of my best friend, who moved to New York last week. She is a heavily closeted smoker (or a garage smoker, because that's where she does it). She smokes maybe double what I do, and she is determined to quit. I wish her well. But I will always remember standing in her garage with her, both of us smoking as we talked about our shared experiences as women, wives and mothers.

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