Babble Reviews Books

Jennifer V. Hughes

Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box: Cut Yourself Some Slack (and Still Raise Great Kids) in the Age of Extreme Parenting By Ann Dunnewold.

For twenty-five years, psychologist Ann Dunnewold has treated women who fret about bringing store-bought snacks to preschool. "Won't your child be at a disadvantage if you don't hand decorate his Easter basket?" she writes, echoing a supposedly familiar refrain. I decide that any nut job who believes this crap needs more help than a book can give and I settle in, warmed by the smug confidence of my own sanity.

And yet. There was that time on a preschool assessment test where I coached my three-year-old on the right answer. And that time when I inexplicably told a waitress, "That's funny - she always eats broccoli at home." I am that nut job, and by Chapter Five, I'm begrudgingly won over. Dunnewold's tips on how to be a "perfectly good" mom are smart and practical: instead of rehashing everything that went wrong at the end of the day, focus on what went right. If you feel the urge to be Supermom, make sure it's doing that one thing you enjoy. You don't even have to be "perfectly good" all the time: "Perfectly good adds up over time; the marbles are not emptied out of the jar." One of my favorite rules was, "Do what is fun for you. Don't be apologetic about it. When my daughters were small, I decreed playing My Little Pony as a mom-free activity."

Ah ? liberation! I have been a Pony-free Mommy ever since.

Practically Perfect In Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help and Back by Jennifer Niesslein.

Niesslein, on the other hand, had me at hello. Any woman who admits that she imagines Oprah just might be talking to her through the television is my kind of nut job. Feeling that she's not sure if she's happy and she doesn't know why, Niesslein embarks on a self-help blitz, tackling everything from her parenting style to her finances to her soul with help from a parade of experts.

I love how Ferber and Sears get equally bitch-slapped on the whole sleep conundrum. I love how she veers wildly between longing for a Pottery Barn home (the chapter on "The House") and imagining living in a trailer to save money ("Finances"). I think I actually peed myself a little laughing when she made her own holy water. Niesslein, who edits the momoir-style magazine Brain, Child, is funny, sweet and snarky. I was genuinely worried about her when she started having panic attacks in the middle of the book, prompted in part by all her self-examination. I don't want to steal her thunder by revealing whether she found her happiness by the end of the book, but I'll tell you this: "You can choose your own adventure," she writes, "but it might not turn out the way you thought it would." — Jennifer V. Hughes

The publishers of daddy memoirs must set requirements for joke ratios along with word counts, because I've yet to read one that didn't crack wise like an improv troupe. The comedy comes fast and furious in both Robert Wilder's Daddy Needs a Drink and Philip Lerman's Dadditude.

Of the two, Wilder's collection of essays about raising his two kids is far more polished and rewarding. A high school English teacher who writes a column of the same name for the Santa Fe Reporter, Wilder's default mode is smartass. He has a knack for letting absurd situations speak for themselves, like the time he dressed up in a second-hand snowman suit for his daughter Poppy's class, or the deliciously mean-spirited essay "Blood on the Tracks," in which he skewers the lunatic teacher of his son London's music class. He's actually at his best, though, when he shelves the ironic metaphors and pop culture punchlines to let some real emotion break through the smirking facade, as in "Crying in America (in Three Parts)," a heartfelt meditation on when grown-ups, not kids, do the crying.

Lerman's Dadditude would have benefitted from this kind of selectivity. Ostensibly, the book is about how Lerman, a former co-executive producer of America's Most Wanted and former national editor of USA Today, became a father at the age of forty-four, and documents the first four years of his son Max's life. But this story could have taken up half of the book's 243 pages. The part that should have been left in the recycle bin is a free-associative ramble, full of dorky jokes, endless asides and annoying generalizations about parenting. The catch is that the other half, the real story, is an incredibly sweet and moving love letter to his son. The two would be impossible to read without each other: the first like a really bad blog, the second, enough to make you gag if you hadn't just slogged through all that Jay Leno humor. But somehow, they complement each other, and by the end, Lerman's sheer enthusiasm for fatherhood was infectious enough to make me like him. — Matt Wood

I judge books by their covers all the time, and this one caught my eye immediately: the mother duck scanning the water nervously while she shields her oblivious ducklings from the predatory mother alligator floating across the way. Who could resist something that looks like a seedy '50s pulp fiction cover remixed with Wild America? The lush acrylic illustrations and gently repetitive text about bayou babies and the lessons their mothers teach them have a wonderful immediacy. Clever layouts ensure that the raccoon family featured in one section of the book appears in the background of the next several pages about baby turtles, who in turn quickly make friends with some fluffy ducklings a few pages later. Older children will sense the danger these other creatures pose; while younger ones, like my nineteen-month-old daughter, will just love identifying all the animals.— Sophie Brookover

If the sky were a mother, then the night would be her child. That's the simple but touching premise behind the newest Yuyi Morales picture book, Little Night, which begins right before bedtime. As Mother Sky fills the bathtub with falling stars, she calls to her little one, but Little Night is a frisky tot and would rather play games than go through her usual nighttime routine. Before she'll consent to a bath, putting on her night clothes, a warm glass of milk, or the brushing of her hair, Little Night wants to play a game of global hide-and-seek. Morales, whose art encompasses a rich dreamscape, has created a true bedtime classic. This book's art glows with the deep reds and purples that linger in the sky at the end of a long summer day, and children adore locating Little Night in each new landscape. As for the words, they perfectly capture the humor and patience found in a loving mother-daughter relationship. — Elizabeth Bird

Without launching into a hand-wringing session about the state of overbooked kids in Manhattan, I will admit that I spend lots of time reassuring my nannying brood that it's okay if they don't want to grow up to be investment bankers and cardiothoracic surgeons. And sure, I pounced on Phillis Gershator's Sky Sweeper because it echoes that sentiment. Sky Sweeper follows the life of Takeboki, who's happy to just sweep the flowers and leaves at a Japanese Buddhist temple, much to the chagrin of his friends and family. Takeboki considers everyone's pleas to do normal things (get a high-profile job, marry, breed) but ultimately decides to keep sweeping. I am positive the kids were too mesmerized by the lush chiyogami collages to digest the book's sweet, zen-like message of inner happiness, but it made me feel better knowing that my weekly heavy-handed attempt to teach them Life Lessons had been accompanied by pretty illustrations. — Annsley Chapman

Once upon a time, in our harsh Dickensian past, people seemed to enjoy disciplining children. But those days are long gone, and now parents are faced with such dilemmas as whining, biting, interrupting — and few palatable solutions that actually work. Enter Positive Discipline A-Z: 1001 Solutions To Everyday Parenting Problems. This is the book to turn to when your eyes are crossed with chagrin and frustration; the authors' tone has the serene resonance of someone who can successfully talk you down off a roof. The book encourages parents to create reasonable expectations for their children as a means of encouraging mutual respect. That plays into everything from developing a hassle-free bathtime routine to assigning age-appropriate chores (a two-year-old can pick up books; a four-year-old can get the mail). Positive Discipline encourages a hybrid of firmness and kindness. It is kind and thoughtful advice that will, hopefully, help create kind and thoughtful children. Check back with me in a few years. — Jordana Horn

Edwina, The Dinosaur Who Didn't Know She Was Extinct is about living the life you wish you had, embracing irrationality and surrendering to your most absurd impulses. It's also about a dinosaur. Edwina is a helpful friendly neighborhood T-Rex whose popularity in her town is based on both her easygoing nature and her ready supply of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Her self-proclaimed nemesis, Reginald Von Hoobie Doobie, is an overly left-brained, empathy-impaired boy who tries to explain to everyone (using signs, protests and other adult-like methods) that Edwina is extinct. His failure to convince anyone is matched only by the appealingly childlike manner in which the townspeople reject his arguments. In one case, his pamphlets are turned into paper hats. If only the rest of us could turn negative propaganda into whimsical headwear, the world would be a better place. — Rachael Brownell

Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late!

Mo Willems's pigeon is an obsession for my son. There's something about this simply-drawn fowl, with his perfectly round head, giant eyes and tiny beak, that inspires a look of awe and rapt attention, punctuated by squeals of delight and fits of giggles. This new hardcover follows the same pattern as the original pigeon book, the Caldecott Award-winning Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. In that book, the friendly bus driver assigns the reader a task, then the pigeon pleads, cajoles, litigates and pitches temper tantrums (much in the manner of a precocious three-year-old) in order to convince the children reading to do the opposite. However, unlike that first book, which gives preschoolers a license to yell "no!" without angering the grown-ups, this story comes with a mellow color palette and plenty of yawning, effectively designed to lull your child to slumber. Have your child act out those on-page yawns and watch as they turn genuine. — Jessica Bennett

Singing Shijimi Clams is the tale of a friendship between an aged witch and the tuneful clams who charm her out of her loneliness . . . yeah, I was skeptical too. But then, like the witch and her curmudgeonly cat Toraji, who urges her to dump the sweet little bivalves into her pot of miso and eat them already, I started to feel sorry for the little guys. It's not their fault they're so tasty. The hundred singing clams help the witch and Toraji raise money for train tickets back to their beachy home, where the whole group lives happily ever after. If that's not a convincing plea for interspecies harmony, I don't know what is. Sadly, my seven- and five-year-old consultants declared books about clams uninteresting and refused to give this one a chance. Perhaps the clams' song — which sounds "like tiny popping bubbles," so we're told — is better suited to a more seasoned palate. — Sophie Brookover

To say that someone is "big in Canada " seems like damning them with fainter-than-faint praise. I mean, let's face it: what's big in Canada ? (Answer: The Rockies and America 's nuclear umbrella. But I digress.) So when I read that Rebecca Eckler is "one of Canada 's best-known journalists," my expectations didn't skyrocket. Eckler's momoir tells the story of what happens when her fiancé knocks her up at their engagement party. Okay, the story is less the act of knocking (that territory was covered in her previous book) and more the actuality of having a baby, and what being a parent does for a relationship. The book is a light, pleasant read that goes for the empathetic laughs rather than attempting to test the truly murky waters of how motherhood alters the soul. But I did feel for her as she talked about calling her fiancé from the house with the baby, multiple times a day, to ask, "So...when are you coming home?" Been there, done that. — Jordana Horn

I could argue that Snip Snap! What's That? is the best read-aloud picture book to come out in the last five years. Mind you, that's just my personal opinion, but examine the evidence. Exhibit A: In this tale, three children are menaced by a hungry alligator. As the reptilian threat grows ever closer, the text is regularly punctuated with the question, "Were the children scared?", to which reader and audience can holler, "You bet they were!" Exhibit B: After the alligator has torn down the door and knocked over the piano, the children have had enough: "They summoned up their courage and gave a great shout. 'Alligator, you get out!' And was the alligator scared? You bet it was!" The children are triumphant and your audience is enthralled. I've even seen kids reel back their right fists and punctuate their words like tiny Fiorello LaGuardias. Your honor, I rest my case.— Elizabeth Bird

I knew I wouldn't like this book when I saw it was billed as "a playdate for your purse." I just felt like authors Beth and Yvette were trying a little too hard to be my BFF, if you know what I mean. Peeing in Peace is a scattered mess that can't decide what it wants to be. Is it Cosmo for moms? (There's a "What Color is Your Pantyhose?" quiz to determine your working-mom personality type.) Is it a practical advice book? (There are tips on how to make it look like you're at work when you're not.) Is it a squishy self-help tome? ("Role Mommy Reality Check" pages have affirmations like "The choices you make along your journey will ultimately guide you to exactly where you want to be.") The book jacket trumpets its "hilarious" stories, but isn't it a little clichéd in 2007 to complain that, har har har, you just can't fit into those size-seven jeans anymore? Every ten pages or so is a nugget called "BC and AD" (Before Children and After Diapers). Get this: After you have kids, "road trip" doesn't mean "blasting cheesy '80s music on a twenty-four-hour drive to Daytona." It means you drive a minivan and the kids yell, "Are we there yet?" Hilarious. I did laugh when I read about Yvette's crush on Anthony from the Wiggles, but as far as I'm concerned, Anthony can have her. — Jennifer V. Hughes

When I picked up Watching . . ., I felt like I'd stumbled upon the indie-flick version of a kids' book: it was originally published in French, the story is whimsical and blurry and a tad precious, and I have no idea what species the cute main character is supposed to be. A fetal puppy? An quadrupedal seal? Whatever it is, this little blobby protagonist has been given a flower and must decide what to do with it. True to the book's title, he decides to wait until the flower is a seed, then a sprout, and finally a tree. What is the message here to tell kids? Not quite sure. At the end of the story, I was almost as confused as I was after seeing Brown Bunny, though Tyler, my four-year-old companion, just seemed contemplative. Monique Touvay's watercolor illustrations are humble and meditative, but sometimes the style gets in the way of comprehension; Tyler grew frustrated with the unfamiliar cursive script, an unfortunate font choice when the words themselves are simple enough for young readers to sound out. Watching . . . will either delight or annoy kids, depending on their entertainment preferences. Are they mini Ridley Scott fans who want florid colors and lots of exclamation points? They'll be squirming on the couch by page four. But if they were contemplating the meaning of existence before potty training, this is the book for them. — Annsley Chapman

"Children are both more and less innocent than we take them for," Boston Globe film critic Ty Burr writes in his introduction to The Best Old Movies for Families, "and we never know what they'll get out of what we hand them: boredom, laughter, ideas that shake the very foundations of their being." Burr's intro makes a persuasive case for screening Cary Grant films in between episodes of Blue's Clues; the rest of the book is an accessible film guide that shows parents where to begin. With his two young daughters in tow, Burr takes a cinematic jaunt from Buster Keaton to Mel Brooks, stopping to discover hundreds of family-friendly classics. The book works because it's not about what movies kids should like; it's about what movies they do like. Every write-up include helpful sections like Pause Button Explanations (how to explain the prostitute in Stagecoach to your toddler) and The Sell (how to convince your twelve-year-old to watch Jane Eyre, "the original goth chick"). While I disagree with some of Burr's preferences - I'd show my kids Gigi over A Star is Born any day - his smart reviews and charming family anecdotes had me loading up my Netflix que. And I'll never watch Bringing Up Baby again without thinking of his description: "Dr. Seuss with a Bryn Mawr accent." — Gwynne Watkins

If you have a child under two, after a while, you probably feel the same way about the alphabet as you do about Old MacDonald, the Elmo's World theme, or that horrid song by The Fray: If I Have To Hear This One More Time, There Is No Telling What I Will Do. Enter Sara Pinto's The Alphabet Room, an adorable little semi-board book which invites young readers to open a pop-up door for each letter of the alphabet to see apples, bowls, a cat . . . you get the picture. My almost-two-year-old was genuinely excited about opening each door to see what lay behind it, and the intricacies and humor of the drawings made the book a pleasure for me to look at, too. By the time we hit "zebra," even my alphabet-proficient three-year-old wanted in on the action. — Jordana Horn

I suppose it was a good sign when my four-year-old ripped the book out of my hands as soon as it arrived and ran off with it. Twenty minutes later she was back with the book cracked open, her finger firmly planted on a picture of fruit salad served up in a fancy glass. "Will you make this for me, Mamma?" she asked. Gimme Five! focuses on how to get children to eat five servings of fruits and vegetables a day, and it ingeniously explains that a serving is about how much your child can hold in her hands ("Gimme five," get it?). I'm lucky that my kids eat a varied diet, but admittedly, they don't always get five servings of fruit and veg. The simple and non-gimmicky recipes (with pictures my daughter refers to daily) will help to ensure they do. Right back atcha, Gimme Five! - Stefania Pomponi Butler

My Cat Copies Me is a reminder of the potential that lies in toddler books to expand children's mindsets beyond their own immediate experience. Perhaps that sounds too heavy for a book that, plot-wise, is not particularly complex: just a series of anecdotes about how a cat copies its young girl owner, and how the owner learns, in turn, from the cat (don't be afraid of the dark, etc.). But the illustrations render this book exceptional: the author has studied traditional Asian landscape painting as well as Korean fine brushwork painting (gong bi hua), and it shows. Kwon's beautiful depictions of everyday objects, from intricate screenwork to simple toys on a bookshelf, will make both parents and children feel like they've spending time in someone else's world. Of course, my kids also don't know anyone who has a cat, so maybe that's what really did it for them. — Jordana Horn

Momzillas, the newest allegedly-non-roman à clef by Jill Kargman (author of several novels with titles like Wolves in Chic Clothing), explores the stay-at-home-mommy trenches of the Upper East Side. The nursery school infighting, the moneyed cliques, the opulent furnishings, the logoed handbags: all the expected elements are present and accounted for. Reading the book is basically like taking a bellyflop into the Urban Baby message boards. Kargman's observant and occasionally sharp-edged writing makes for an enjoyable read, despite the predictably shallow plot. (I am not sure why almost every novel I read about married moms makes the mom have a near-miss affair with a former lover/coworker/crush, as if to say that it is only through their pre-mothering life that they can possibly attain a degree of sexual legitimacy and recollect their individuality/libido. . . but I digress.) My review would be remiss if I did not note just how curious I am as to why "Britney Spears-Federline" is thanked in the acknowledgments. Perhaps Sean Preston and Jayden James will be moving to Park Avenue? - Jordana Horn

Every page of this high-concept Japanese picture book features the same stubby, cutely-shaped animals; they change shape and direction but always stay in the same spot. So the hippo may be smilingly present on the first page, but by the third page, only his eyes remain. The kids are asked "Who's hiding?" or "Who's backwards?" Since the book's emphasis is on pattern and name recognition rather than words, it's a good fit for both early readers and pre-literate toddlers. It may take some flipping back and forth (and my youngest always yells out "Zebra!" no matter which animal is actually missing), but they'll get into it eventually. — Rachael Brownell

Opening The Perfect Stranger, I prepared for a screed, a pastiche of clichés: working moms are saints, nannies are lazy, at-home moms are brain-dead. Instead, I found an honest, often funny and sometimes achingly sad book about what Lucy Kaylin calls "the trickiest, most controversial thing you will ever do. . . hiring a stranger to help you raise your kids." Kaylin, the executive editor of Marie Claire, interviews mothers and nannies about their experiences and dives head-first into the thorny issues of race and class. She touches on the nanny-cam phenomenon and throws in a few fine examples of Barbara Ehrenrich-style reportage. She's also got a keen wit (when her son asks her what kind of car she wants to be, she thinks,"how about I'll be a drinker of wine and reader of the newspaper? I so don't want to be a car."). And she has an eye for lovely details, such as her description of the first time she left her daughter with the woman who would become her nanny: "I walked into the sun alone, no Bjorn strapped to my chest, no hummingbird heart beat contrapuntal to mine." Anyone who plans on hiring a nanny will rely on Kaylin's candor, humor and insights to guide them; anyone who has already done so will appreciate finding a book that hits so close to home. — Jennifer V. Hughes

When I was a kid, I enjoyed crafting little birds out of pom-poms, feathers and googly eyes.  However, I did not photograph these birds in awkward social situations and write snide captions underneath them.  This is the difference between me and bizarrely successful author/artist Sloane Tanen.  Her newest book, which threatens to infiltrate baby showers nationwide, is more of the same — fluffy little chickens saddled with society-girl humor — except now all the chickens are in various stages of motherhood.   (Not laying eggs, mind you, but carrying their offspring to term in expensive maternity jeans.)  One page shows a cluster of chickens in a delivery room, gawking at the one giving birth.  If that doesn't strike you as somehow wrong, here's the caption: "Sally was thrilled about having all her sorority sisters in the delivery room... until she pooped. That was so NOT Kappa Kappa Gamma."   If you're laughing, then you'll love the one about the chicken with the botched epidural. I will admit to giggling at the illustration of an unhatched egg going to his first preschool admissions interview — but in the end, I got more entertainment out of those pom-poms, feathers and googly eyes. — Gwynne Watkins

The trials of your average everyday robot too often go unremarked upon in this hectic day and age.  Give thanks, then, that a picture book like Bob Staake's Hello, Robots! exists at all.  Told in a gleeful rhyming verse, the story follows four domestic robots of bright shades and hues as they mow, bake, clean and more, until an untimely cloudburst puts their wiring all askew.  Now Zinc is attempting to repair apple pies and Blip is raking the windows.  Only a little mechanical ingenuity involving head-swapping will solve this particular problem.  Staake decks his book in ultra-mod retro designs, as pleasing to the eye as the text is to robot-loving youth.  You won't find any robot insecurities regarding the manliness of household chores here, and kids love both the tragedy of bots gone haywire and the somewhat unorthodox plan that puts everything right. — Elizabeth Bird

A peanut butter-spattered toy buffalo faces the dreaded washing machine and makes a friend; a know-it-all stuffed stingray deadpans hilariously bad advice and misinformation; and a rubber ball with an identity crisis discovers who she really is, thanks to a wise, damp bath towel. Like the film Toy Story, this book imagines the secret lives of toys, speaking directly to children's fantasies about what might go on in the toy box while they're at school or asleep. Of course, Lumphy, StingRay, and Plastic are stand-ins for children. Each of the six stories is a tiny jewel of kid logic, and every one hits the mark by addressing children's fears and questions with humor, sincerity and sweetness. Although it is a perfect read-aloud for six- or seven-year-olds, I read two of these stories to a group of twelve-year-olds and they were entranced. Now that's some good kid lit. — Sophie Brookover

When my girlfriend said she was going to send me her copy of The Motherhood Manifesto, written by the founders of mothers' advocacy group MomsRising, I told her not to do it. I knew that the moment I cracked it open, I would be infuriated at the state of working mothers' affairs in this country. I am one of those working mothers. I know first-hand how bad things are, and I knew the book would make me confront the difficult fact that, even though I was capable of advocating for change, I was doing nothing. She sent it anyway. And as I predicted, reading it made me angry. Angry that the United States is one of the only industrialized countries in world that doesn't have paid family leave. Angry that more employers aren't open to flexible work hours. Angry that we don't have universal healthcare so that marginalized children can get the medical care they deserve. Angry that mothers still don't get equal pay for equal work. I knew that if I cracked open this book, I would be forced to make time in my already busy life to take action. I attend my first MomsRising house party next week. And I'm all fired up about it. — Stefania Pomponi Butler

On a two-page spread sit these deceivingly simple words: "On Monday, Farmer Greenstalk dropped his watch down the well." Poor Farmer Greenstalk. There he stands, staring mournfully down into a great deep well, a look of sad resignation on his face. This looks like a job for some overactive poultry.

"Chickens to the rescue!" screams the next double-page spread. Yes, whether it's helping son Jeffrey with his homework, stopping an errant duck from driving off with the farmer's truck, or lugging lost sheep back into their pen, these chickens act like a united superflock. By the end of the book, it becomes clear that even heroic chickens need their rest — and luckily, there are other animals in the wings. Chickens to the Rescue is quite possibly the best read-aloud picture book of the past year. Kids adore screaming the title as each situation becomes goofier and goofier. (One child pored so deeply over the book after storytime that he was able to pinpoint every upside-down chicken in the illustrations.) And though it doesn't appear in the book, be prepared for the kids to yell, "Pigs to the rescue!" when they catch a glimpse of the final image. — Elizabeth Bird

Full disclosure: I'm not a big fan of dogs. Despite this obstacle, I was totally won over by How to Be A Good Dog's Bobo, a dog with good intentions who just can't help being a little bit obstreperous. (Interesting — a toddler book about someone who has difficulty behaving himself? Must be some sort of strange coincidence.) In any event, fortunately, Bobo's housemate Cat is an affable tutor in the ways of the obedient world, and the illustrations are entertaining. My one caveat is that I think this sweet book would play better with an audience of kids who are familiar with dogs. The blank stares with which I was greeted as I read the pages when Bobo was being taught to "heel" were oddly reminiscent of myself in high school geometry. — Jordana Horn

Ironically, the label "momoir" screams that this is a memoir of a person who is nothing more than a mom, while the point of the book is to virtually shriek from the shelves, "I am a person! I swear! I am more than someone who changes diapers! You gotta believe me!" Good momoirs are usually either amusingly plaintive or wise and eloquent.

You're Not The Boss of Me: Adventures of a Modern Mom by Erika Schickel falls more into the former category. Schickel is definitely funny, and clearly intelligent. So maybe if you're genuinely shocked that a woman who is a mother can also be, to appropriate someone else's malapropism, "clean and articulate," then you would find her observations shocking. But I'm not sure what's "adventurous" about saying that you really hated driving a minivan. The book is in essay format, and a few of the pieces — a description of her visit to a strip club, or one that recounts her experience as an actress "giving birth" on a television show — are truly entertaining. For the most part, her book reads like a funny friend telling you stories about her kids — which would be fine, if we were friends.

A more unusual story is told in Mamarama: A Memoir of Sex, Kids & Rock 'n' Roll by Evelyn McDonnell. McDonnell, a rock music critic, stepmother, mother and thoughtful individualist, writes about herself with a rare combination of ironic detachment and honest introspection. Shaped by the music she loves, her identity is revisited and reevaluated in light of her relationships to stepdaughters and son, and transforms over the course of the well-written narrative. As she writes in the book's introduction, "A baby changes everything. Except your self." But her accommodations of self made in the name of her children are raw and true. Now here's a woman who definitely does more than change diapers. — Jordana Horn

Owen and Mzee is the book equivalent of a National Geographic special for kids. It's a photo-and-text recounting of the unusual story of Owen, a hippo abandoned by his mother after the 2004 tsunami, who was then brought to a Kenyan wildlife preserve and found a new mother/best friend in a 130-year-old tortoise, Mzee. The delight of friendship found in unexpected places is a terrific lesson for little kids. A reading to those below the age of five will probably have to be abridged and explained: they're not going to get the parts about the tsunami or the hippo rescue mission, and might be better served by the comparatively simplistic board book, Best Friends: Owen and Mzee. That being said, it's a book to grow into. My one-and-a-half-year-old son held the book and stared reverently at the photos, turning the pages slowly and murmuring "hippo . . . hippo . . ." like a mantra. Please excuse me while I go try to pry it out of his hands. Again. — Jordana Horn

Though the language of warfare is frequently invoked in Babyproofing Your Marriage, what could have devolved into a grim litany of post-children marital woes is saved by the perfect blend of humor and irreverence. "The Ten O'Clock Shoulder Tap," for example, describes the inevitable husbandly request for sex, followed by the wifely refusal. The authors offer a reasonably easy solution, "The Five Minute Fix," a fence-mending exercise involving spouse-favorable maintenance sex. If that sounds a little too Dr. Laura for you, rest assured that moms catch a break here, too — in the "Training Weekend," Mommy is instructed to leave Daddy in charge for 48 hours, nabbing some much-needed rest while simultaneously building stronger marital empathy. The authors conducted many interviews for this book and the result is real-life war stories peppered throughout that will make you sigh with recognition and relief. I've used some "fixes" to good effect and I'm planning my Training Weekend next month; hopefully, these are good steps to getting any couple out of the war zone. — Rachael Brownell

Amy Scheibe's novel is the classic 3-phase chick-lit template applied to stay-at-home motherhood. Phase 1: establish main character (Jennifer Bradley, a New York mother of 2) as a fish out of water, navigating through a society where she doesn't feel quite at home. Phase 2: conflict! In this case, conflict equals predictable relationship and career confusion, liberally laced with sweatpants and diaper drama. Phase 3: well, I won't spoil it for you, but if you've ever read anything in this genre, you already know, anyway. Jennifer is mostly likeable and often so obtuse that you want to slap her; she's the typical Everywoman that makes these books so popular with, well, Everywoman. The standard complement of stock characters is present and accounted for: the gay friend, the sassy friend with her shit together, the evil mother-in-law, the pointless reappearance of The Ex. There's not a lot of introspection, though there's plenty of self-absorption. I think that's the secret of chick-lit: it presents us with a mirror to our most annoying selves, then allows us to be redeemed. And it allows us to do so on a beach, while drinking. — Patti Nichols

Has your child ever wondered what goes on behind the closed door of the refrigerator? The Shivers in the Fridge is the story of the Shivers, a frigid extended family with the misfortune of residing in the refrigerator. It is a place where noses never grow warm, and a monster with a giant hand, accompanied by a great flash of light, arbitrarily enters and seizes fellow cold-weather inhabitants. Before getting to the root of the mystery, the characters (including Grandma Shivers, a veritable Borscht Belt comedienne) explore the challenging terrains of Jell-O, grapes and broccoli that make up their hidden world. Smaller children may be frightened by the concept of family members being plucked away one by one, but will be relieved by the happily-ever-after conclusion. At the end of the book, though, I was left to wonder: why didn't the Shivers remember their previous lives as magnets while they suffered through the tribulations of refrigeration? Then again, who am I to quarrel with plot inconsistencies in a book about the vagaries of the lives of refrigerator magnets? — Jordana Horn

Every parent of a toddler is familiar with this birthday/holiday phenomenon: after all the money that you spent on the Trendy Gift Of The Moment, your wonderful child is thrilled . . . with the box, and spends days on end playing with it, leaving Trendy Gift to collect dust in the corner. Antoinette Portis' Not A Box addresses this phenomenon with quirky illustrations, showing a rabbit's many uses for a box (which, as you may have guessed, he repeatedly asserts is "not a box"). The book is definitely more picture-heavy than text-heavy, and older toddlers may be "too old" for it. But the book's illustrations are bold, simple and adorable, and will stand up to repeat readings in the box of your choice. — Jordana Horn

"Being an only child gave me a distinct feeling that I was nearly unborn." So writes only child Alissa Quart in "The Hotline," one of the essays in the (appropriately) starkly-titled anthology Only Child. As an older brother, I've often wondered what it would be like to be an "only." The contributors here offer up their experiences living lives without siblings, and the result is an often moving but ultimately uneven compilation. Quart's piece is among the best; Alysia Abbott's "A Pair of Onlies" is bone-crushingly sad; and who knew Teller (of Penn & Teller) could be so verbose? Almost all of the essays have an undercurrent of melancholy; there's more sorrow to be found in these stories than joy, and because of that, the sum of the book is a bit less than the parts. Still, if you're looking for a way to get your spouse's buy-in on having Kid #2, this is a good book to have around. — Jason Avant

Jackie Urbanovic's Duck at the Door addresses everyone's recurring nightmare: what happens when a duck knocks at your door and wants to stay with you all winter? Okay, maybe this is just my recurring nightmare. But nonetheless, Urbanovic's book is a new entry covering the well-trodden turf of the eccentric duck. Give a duck a remote control, we find, and the world is his oyster. Young readers who bemoan the presence of a new sibling interloper may relate to the other pets in the house, who initially are frustrated by Duck but grow to love him despite (or perhaps because of) his foibles. Aww. — Jordana Horn

I admit it. I loved this book. When I was first expecting, I needed someone to tell me about the constipation and the gas and how my nipples would turn crazy colors. None of the other books I picked up dealt as frankly with acne and bizarre sex dreams. The only thing I could have done without was Iovine's suggestion that a good way to get around buying maternity clothes when you first start showing is to wear your husband's clothes. Sorry, Vicki. I couldn't get my husband's jeans over my ass even before I got pregnant. — Sarah Braesch

Folksy writers bitching about the vagaries of pregnancy always remind me of those bridezillas who go nuts about the color of the bridesmaids' shoes for their wedding: too focused on the event rather than the outcome. Yeah, big deal, you're going to be fat for a few months. Get over your big self. But author Joanne Kimes writes about pregnancy maladies and personal experiences (even her own miscarriage) with a combination of humor and actual medical advice (OB-GYN Sanford Tisherman is co-author). I found it much more satisfying than the comparable, omnipresent Vicki Iovine tome. Move over, Girlfriend. — Jordana Horn

Not every kid is attracted to bright colors and stories about cute animals. Young readers who prefer Chris Van Allsburg to Richard Scarry will light up when they see Peter McCarty's Moon Plane. McCarty's penciled illustrations and bare prose tell the story of a little boy who imagines himself to be a passenger on an airplane that reaches outer space. The Tim Burton-esque drawings are thrilling, and the muted color palette — while it may bore the youngest kids — is refreshing. The picture of the little boy floating alone on the surface of the moon in his pint-sized astronaut gear is a whole story in itself. — Annsley Chapman

I so wanted to love this book; after all, Jennifer was writing about a good deal of what my life was comprised of for 11 years.  And she did hit a lot of salient points, especially in the chapter that describes the ten myths of full-time motherhood.  But her dream life as a full-time mom is one that contains drive-thru coffee houses and an assortment of convenient places to drop off her children at every turn, which makes me wonder why she eschewed her job in the Corporate World to begin with, except to assuage the guilt that plagues all of us in the horrible riddle of motherhood.  In other words, how can we be good mothers if we work, but how can we be good people if we're "just" mothers? Jennifer explores this uncomfortable conundrum through pages of angry diatribes at her husband, the cable provider and society. In the end, she acknowledges that her children won't be little forever and vows to cherish the fleeting stage of life they're in — while taking comfort that she found a medium in which to express her frustrations along the way. Is it just me, or does that sound like a cop-out? — Karen Murphy

With echoes of Charlie Brown (Pinky is the new Snoopy), this tale about a friendship between a bald kid and a pig is delightfully humorous. Over the course of the book, Pinky and Max make their way through camping outings, Saturday adventures and marshmallow chow-downs, all of which are drawn in bold primary colors and full of clever asides. Even if the thought balloons go over younger kids' heads, the silly pictures are bound to make them laugh. (My five-year-old twins were especially keen on the part with the polar bear: “Mama, is that his butt?” Giggle giggle, snort. “It looks like a MARSHMALLOW!”) Few kids will be able to resist the inherent charm of Max and Pinky. My family looks forward to joining them on their next adventure. — Rachael Brownell

Cynthia von Buhler, a surrealist known for incorporating insects and live rats into her artwork, strikes me as an unlikely children's book author. Yet The Cat Who Wouldn't Come Inside is surprisingly full of old-fashioned sweetness. The book's human heroine tries in vain to bargain for the eponymous cat's affection, providing it with salmon steaks, catnip, and even, eventually, a fireplace, but the ungrateful creature refuses to be domesticated. The cat offers the cutest refutation of the Protestant work ethic ever published: we're so drawn in by the little beast that we don't even notice he's a freeloading slacker. Von Buhler's art — photographed dioramas of a Victorian home populated by clay figures — is exquisitely detailed, and may leave your kids obsessed with dollhouse miniatures. A bittersweet author's note tells the true story on which the book is based, and serves to round out the story's meditation on our fascination with the wildest of domesticated animals. — Gabriel Mckee

As a North Carolina native who grew up on Southern folktales, I was told stories about Paul Bunyan and Cherokees instead of Peter Pan and Cinderella. All of my respective heroes embarked on epic journeys to plant apple trees or build the American railroads. Sarah Martin Busse and Jacqueline Briggs Martin must have heard the same stories I did, as their new book is part high-lonesome lullaby, part tall tale, and entirely engrossing for young readers and bluegrass fans alike. Barry Root's sun-washed watercolors illustrate the rugged Southern terrain that a banjo-toting grandmother must cross on her quest to reach her dancing baby grandson. True to her folktale predecessors, Banjo Granny can soothe wild rivers and bend the Appalachians with foot-stomping bluegrass tunes. This gorgeous book about family ties comes with an easy musical score and a short history of bluegrass in the back of the book. It had me craving hush puppies and The Stanley Brothers for days. — Annsley Chapman

You may think you've heard every possible answer to the timeless question of the chicken and the road, but the fourteen artists who've illustrated their own punchlines to this ur-joke keep things as fresh as a newly laid egg. Marla Frazee's sarcastic chicken thinks, duh, as she abandons her rain-drenched tenement of a coop for the sun-bathed chicken McMansion on the other side of the street. Chris Sheban draws two baseball-playing chickens fleeing from their neighbor's newly smashed window. And Lynn Munsinger envisions a Manhattan populated entirely with chickens, who, having completed their shopping at Coopingdale's and Chicks Fifth Avenue, rush into the crosswalk the second the light changes. One or two of the punchlines fall flat — Jerry Pinkney's multi-species picnic and Mary GrandPre's reimagined Garden of Eden are beautifully rendered, if not funny — but there's enough here to keep every young comedian in stitches. It's perfect for Jon Scieszka fans, who will also love the pun-filled illustrator biographies. — Sophie Brookover

When I was pregnant, I hated pretty much every pregnancy book I read. They all had complicated agendas, huge miscarriage chapters and a "be afraid of life" sensibility. And really all I wanted was to know what size my baby was each week (an M&M, an apple, a football) and what amazing new things he was working on in there (fingernails, ears, the ability to suck his thumb). So I was thrilled to find Great Expectations. Sure, it's rather pushy on some subjects (like not circumcising) and has some requisite freak-you-out sections, but it also has a couple of charmingly written, breezily informative pages dedicated to each week, with a little image of what the baby looks like and a paragraph about how you're probably feeling and what the kid is up to. Sure, a lot of that you can get from the American Baby or BabyCenter weekly emails, but when it came to my timeline, Great Expectations was more on the money. Plus, you can't bring the computer into the tub.  — Ada Calhoun

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