I took an auto mechanics class when I was in my early twenties and living on my own. But thanks to Stephen T. Johnson, my son won't need to tromp to the YWCA in the snow in order to feel independent. This incredible cardboard book about taxis (and really about all cars) teaches kids at least as much as I learned from that former drill sergeant in that dim garage. Full of removable pieces that interlock, it puts the average pop-up book to shame.

You can open the hood and check the oil, fill it up with gas, keep snacks in the glove compartment and test the meter. You can even check the tire pressure in all four tires. Only downside: you will instantly lose the tire gauge, cracker and/or gas nozzle under your couch.   — Ada Calhoun

There have been some grumblings that the plot runs aground in the final volume of the Lemony Snicket series. But there has always been a Rube Goldberg craziness to the plots of these ridiculous, dark books, from the toddler Sunny's strangely perceptive babble to Count Olaf's see-through disguises. In a world populated by weirdly named snakes and places like Lake Lachrymose and Hotel Denouement, Mr. Snicket's incessant, gimmicky wordplay has always made these books a naughty, geeky pleasure. Snicket (Daniel Handler) is always telling you unpleasant truths (people die, some people mean you ill, life is unfair) that other adults don't want you to hear, creating a kind of shared illicit pleasure between kid reader and adult narrator, with pitch-black jokes, usually involving death. This final volume does indeed strand the kids on a desert island where very little happens. But this final volume is more a cheeky philosophical summation of the whole series: a Tempest- (or Lost-) like myth set on an isle where people hope to escape the treacheries of the world, only to find out that they can't. So if Mr. Snicket leaves plenty of questions unanswered (the fate of the Quagmire twins, for one) in this final book, he at least leaves no further doubt that he is imploring his young readers to question what they're told. He wants kids to face dark things, to ask nosy questions about corrupt men and money and death and secret histories, and to watch their backs. -- Logan Hill

My grandmother used to make all her grandkids over the age of three memorize and recite seventeenth- and eighteenth-century poetry. While this came in really helpful twenty years later when I took the English Literature GRE, I can't help feeling like we skipped a step between Dr. Seuss and John Donne. The re-issue of this legendary Gwendolyn Brooks collection serves exactly that purpose. The book was first published in 1956, and each poem is told by or about a different kid growing up in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Brooks' verses transcend decades, painting a vivid, honest picture of an urban community. While some phrases may seem anachronistic and formal to savvy millennium-era kids, overall the tone is perfect for the new generation: simple but not condescending. As a bonus, the full-color illustrations by Faith Ringgold are not only beautiful, but have some great details from the poems (like neighbors in the windows or half-hidden pets) that kids love discovering. Not only is it Good Literature, but it's also something that kids can enjoy on their own level. That can't necessarily be said for Alexander Pope. — JL Scott

The practically perfect nanny flies into the middle of London on an umbrella to take charge of the emotionally neglected Jane and Michael Banks. She's been getting renewed attention since the Disney stage version of Mary Poppins opened on Broadway. But the original books, newly re-released by Harcourt, offer little of the sentimental whimsy of the Disney classic.

The Travers books are set in depression-era London. Mary Poppins is an intimidatingly mysterious figure who has a complicated relationship with reality. She introduces Jane and Michael to a magical world in which they speak to animals at the zoo, learn how the stars appear in the sky and find themselves in the midst of classic nursery rhymes. Travers's Mary Poppins serves as an emissary between the world of children and adults. It's worth revisiting the original before (or instead of) the Disney version. —JL Scott

While I 100-percent support reading to children, and know it's necessary for their development and all that, I must confess I hate reading most children's books aloud. They're often repetitive, have dumb plots or require me to make awkward sound effects. This mischievous book (featuring impish illustrations by Nancy Carpenter) overcame even my crippling performance anxiety. It follows a day in the life of a semi-bratty kid who has outrageous ideas — from stapling her brother's hair to his pillow to telling her class that she personally owns one hundred pet beavers — that get her in trouble only when she follows through on them. Each page has one couplet, like "I had an idea to tell my brother he'd soon be eaten by hyenas. I am not allowed to tell my brother's fortune anymore." Finally, a non-patronizing way to teach kids it can be fun to watch what they say. —JL Scott

Ten years ago, Bridget Jones Diary taught us that single womanhood consisted of man mishaps, disastrous weight fluctuations and charming ineptitude. Now, a new stereotype crosses the pond: Amy, a West London woman (think: one of Bridget Jones's emotionally fuckwittaged gal pals) has the all-too-common woes of a typical new mom: she feels fat, unloved, leaky, and clueless on how to handle her infant daughter Evie. Enter Alice, a happily single mom exuding Heidi Klum sexiness, who has a well-ordered and perfectly content life of great shopping, great boyfriends, great sex, and an idyllic relationship with her infant son, Alfie. Immediately, Amy swaps her frumpy baby-obsessed friends for life with the other Yummies (whose interests range from coke binges to sample sales). Amy loses weight, gets Botox and almost has an affair with her Pilates instructor. Inevitably, she learns lessons about Just Being Herself.

The term "yummy mummy" has already crept into popular parlance as the more polite cousin to "MILF." And this book has already heralded the dawn of mommy lit, the inevitable next generation of chick lit, and the mindless cousin to smart explorations of new motherhood (see: Rachel Cusk's 2003 memoir A Life's Work: On Becoming a Mother). But as a longtime fan of chick lit, I like it. The moral that moms are either glamorous but unhappy or dowdy and boring is tedious, but Amy is a charmingly clueless narrator. Her vulnerability reminds me of what made Bridget Jones so addictive. And it's a must-read in the way of The Devil Wears Prada or The Nanny Diaries: a guilty pleasure bound to be an Op-Ed touchstone, meaning you can justify it as cultural literacy, not fluff. — JL Scott

While most parents believe their child is a genius, Charles Yang proves it. The linguist explains how languages grow, why they change over time, and how children, through nature and nurture, drive the process. Despite its forays into technical aspects of modern linguistics (potentially alienating to anyone without a passing interest in the subject), The Infinite Gift is plenty readable thanks to Yang's anecdotes about his own children. He explains, for example, that "toddler speak," your average three year old's adorable mispronunciations ("boo" in place of "blue") are just attempts to streamline language.

"Once more note before we begin: this is not a parenting book." Yang states this in his introduction, making it abundantly clear that this volume is not going to tell parents exactly how to speak to their child to encourage linguistic growth or how to recognize danger signs that their child isn't developing at a normal pace. It's instead for parents who marvel at their children's leap from gurgling bundle to chattering young person, and who want to understand the mechanics of such a miraculous transformation. —John Constantine