There seems to be something faintly malevolent lurking beneath the guise of motherhood these days. If it isn't legitimate to fry your baby, it seems that every child in America gets an hourly ""fantasy disembowelling"" by its female progenitor. That's what this author does, as her biography ticks away in chapters governed by the times of her day. What she seems to be asking for is confirmation that she's not nuts. No, she's not, really. But she talks constantly about slipping over the edge from sheer boredom, in spite of the fact that she seems to have a nice, normal husband (rare in itself) and three clever, likable children. Everybody loves everybody else, nobody's sick or needs therapy, and still Baehr feels she wants to go honkers. Obviously she's trying to solve her ambivalences in this book. O.K.--a half-a-point for effort. But although she arrives at a minimal Truth now and then, it's not often enough to keep the reader from wanting to give her a swift kick and tell her to shape up and write something solid. She could.