As a woman used to traveling and living the high life in Bangkok, Leanne Shirtliffe recognized the constant fodder for humor while pregnant with twins in Asia’s sin city. But in spite of deep-fried bug cuisine and nurses who cover newborn bassinets with plastic wrap, Shirtliffe manages to keep her babies alive for a year with help from a Coca-Cola deliveryman, several waitresses, and a bra factory. Then she and her husband return home to the isolation of North American suburbia.
In Don’t Lick the Minivan, Shirtliffe captures the bizarre aspects of parenting in her edgy, honest voice. She explores the hazards of everyday life with children such as:
The birthday party where neighborhood kids took home skin rashes from the second-hand face paint she applied.
The time she discovered her twins carving their names into her minivan’s paint with rocks.
The funeral she officiated for “Stripper Barbie.”
The horror of glitter.
And much more!
Shirtliffe eventually realizes that even if she can’t teach her kids how to tie their shoelaces, she’s a good enough mom. At least good enough to start saving for her twins’ therapy fund. And possibly her own. Shirtliffe’s memoir might not replace a therapist, but it is a lot cheaper.
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.10(d)|
About the Author
Leanne Shirtliffe is an award-winning humor blogger. She writes funny stuff for the Huffington Post, Nickelodeon’s NickMom.com, and the Calgary Herald. When she’s not stopping her twins from licking frozen flagpoles, she teaches English to teenagers who are slightly less hormonal than she is. She lives with her husband, their kids, and dust bunnies in Calgary, Alberta.
Read an Excerpt
PREGNANCY AND BIRTH, OR IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?
SO THE ACCOUNTANT GOT HER AUNT TO DO SOME WOO-WOO ON OUR UNBORN BABIES?
When I got knocked up, my husband Chris and I had been living in Thailand for three years, teaching at an international school. It took what seemed to be the majority of our first year in Southeast Asia for me to find someone who could cut my hair so that it didn't look like I'd been welding while standing in a bathtub full of water. Bangkok's humidity meant that pieces of my hair flipped in every compass direction, like they were trying to escape my head.
I found a woman with curlier and nicer hair than mine.
"Who does your hair?" I asked.
Soon, I hunted down Franck, a French expat living in Bangkok whose name rhymed with "honk." Franck knew how to cut hair, even if his methods were unorthodox. For part of the appointment, he'd sit on his stool-with-wheels and encircle you, not unlike a kid who's discovered his parents' twirly office chair. For the end of the haircut, he'd rise and ask you to stand up, finishing off his magic while standing.
He had a good thing going. He charged Parisian prices in a developing country; desperate and frizzled expatriates emptied money from their wallets. After I became his client, a dozen of my colleagues followed.
I'd been seeing Franck for three years when my love for him temporarily faded.
"Allo, Leanne," he said, holding the last syllable of my name as French men do. He was always good-natured. Then I watched as his eyes squinted at me, bringing me into focus against the blinding Thai sun.
He walked over. "Your hairrr," he said. "Your hairrr look like sheet."
"What?" I said, even though I'd heard perfectly well. "My hair does not look like sheet, does it?"
"Ah. But it does. It look like sheet. Who cut deess?"
"Non. Not I. I did not cut deess." He inspected the ends.
"You did. Two months ago."
"Some-ting happened den. Tell Franck de trute." He led me to his chair, which might have been electrified given what just transpired.
"Seet," he said. "And tell me."
I sat. "Well, I'm pregnant."
"Aha. So dat eez it. Dat explains it."
"Bien sur. Your hair look like sheet because you're pregnant. De body changes. De hair changes."
"But I thought your hair was supposed to look better when you're pregnant."
"Ahh, Leanne. Most women, yes. But you? Non."
"Can you make me look less like sheet?"
"I try," he said. He must have noticed my pout. "But pregnancy is good, Leanne, non?"
"It's good, Franck. It's good."
He motioned for his assistant to wash my hair.
"But please don't tell anyone," I said. "Other than my husband, you're the only one who knows."
"Leanne, I won't tell anyone your hair look like sheet."
"No, Franck," I said. "Don't tell anyone I'm pregnant. No one knows."
Franck smiled. "Pas de problem."
There are things that turn my stomach more than a French man telling me I look like sheet and more than pregnancy. But being knocked up is still high on my list. It's not so much the pregnancy; it's my memory of being pregnant with twins in Thailand.
While Bangkok might be called the City of Angels, it sometimes felt more like the City of Smells. The spectrum of stenches presented a multitude of problems for pregnant me, not the least of which was eating fried rice without upchucking refried rice. I stumbled along the sidewalks, climbing two-foot curbs and dodging vendors who were hawking a variety of smelly goods ranging from deep-fried bugs to papaya with chilies. If those didn't turn my stomach, the hawkers promising pirated Celine Dion CDs or sex would.
Most days I ate at a street stall. Having lived in Bangkok for years, I knew which portable eateries were safe. Usually I'd inhale chicken fried rice or pad thai. Sometimes, however, eating held the same level of enjoyment as getting a pap smear with a frost-laden metallic torture device.
Chris often joined me for lunch, anxious to escape the world of books he lived in as the school's librarian. He'd watch me play with the remainders of my food and shift in my plastic chair. I looked over to the propane-powered barbecue on which the vendor was cooking mystery-meat-on-a-stick. I said to Chris, "If I smell any more charred flesh, I'm going to puke up my pad thai." He picked up his empty bamboo skewer and mimed stabbing himself in the chest. I laughed.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"I feel like I'm going to puke with a smile on my face."
That day I didn't, but on other days stray dogs lapped up my second-hand offerings, adding me to the food chain.
Things didn't become much more routine when Chris and I went to my ob-gyn guy, also known as a doctor. Given that my first trimester had included some bleeding and bed rest, I panicked at any abnormality. Whenever our doctor did an ultrasound, I just wanted him to say the word "normal." Or, as he said in his accented English, "nor-maall" (rhymes with "sore gal").
Every few weeks, we would come armed with a paranoid couple's list of concerns and he would answer, "Nor-maall, completely nor-maall."
At one appointment, I pulled out my scroll of questions. I looked at the doctor and asked, "Is it normal to have mushrooms growing out of my armpit?"
His forehead creased. "Mushrooms?"
I raised my arm. I'd worn a sleeveless blouse, anticipating this moment. Chris shifted, unfazed at my colony of fungi. The doctor wandered over and laughed. "Those aren't mushrooms," he said.
"Polyps. Or skin tags. They come, they go. Normaall."
"So, they're not mushrooms?"
"Then I shouldn't stir fry them?"
When we arrived home, Chris imitated me, "Doctor, I've grown a third eye and there are radishes sprouting from my ears."
"No worries," Chris continued his impression, "it's normaall."
There are a lot of things that were nor-maall in Thailand that wouldn't have been in North America. The Thais have some great superstitions. One is that it's bad luck to get your hair cut on Wednesday. Another is that twins are incredibly lucky. Boy/girl twins are even luckier. And if the boy is born first — as William was in our case — you're going to start crapping gold bricks. Even if we didn't go all Midas-like, several Thai maintenance staff members asked Chris to buy lottery tickets for them. They gave him money; his job was to select the tickets. Chris would have had an easier job crapping gold bricks than picking a winning lottery ticket from the blind man with the rebar cane who approached the outskirts of the school campus daily.
At some point during my pregnancy, Chris received an email from a Thai woman in the accounting department at work. He showed it to me when he arrived home.
"I HAVE ASKED MY AUNT TO LOOK FOR THE GOOD DAY FOR YOUR CHILDREN TO BE BORN. I GAVE HER YOUR AND YOUR WIFE BIRTHDAY AND SHE COMES UP WITH THE FOLLOWING DAY AND TIME:
* MAY 22 or 24. TIME: 6:00 AM to 1:00 PM
* JUNE 5. TIME: 6:00 AM to 9:00 PM
* JUNE 6. TIME: 9:00 AM to 9:00 PM
* JUNE 12. TIME: 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM.
I reread the email. I used my fingers to count how many weeks I'd be pregnant by those dates. I also used my toes and every other countable thing nearby.
I paused to process this epistle.
"Let me get this straight. So the accountant got her aunt to do some woo-woo on our unborn babies?"
"And we're supposed to give this to our doctor?"
Chris nodded. "She said it also has something to do with the moons."
"OK. But we're not giving this to our doctor, are we?"
"He's Thai. He'd likely say it's nor-maall."
"We're still not giving him the list," I said.
"Good. You know, if our babies are born on those dates, it'll be freaky." I shifted in my chair. "But if they're not, we can blame the moon for everything they do wrong for the rest of their lives."
Which is precisely what we've done.
WE'RE IN TROUBLE IF OUR DOCTOR DOESN'T KNOW HOW WOMEN DO IT
Some babes are born in the back of a taxi; some babes are conceived in the back of a taxi. Our daughter was named in the back of a taxi.
We had just taken the Skytrain, Bangkok's version of Jetson-transit, to an English-language bookstore and picked up a baby name book. Chris suggested we take a taxi home, which meant we were stuck in one of Bangkok's infamous 24-7 traffic jams.
Having been married for four years, we'd had every conversation we ever needed to have twenty-six times. So I made up a game. I'm annoying like that.
Taking the baby name book out of the bag, I said, "Pick a number between one and three hundred ninety-two." "Seventy," Chris said.
I flipped to page seventy. "Now we each have to find a baby name we like." We scanned the names and critiqued each other's choices.
Three turns later, I said, "Three hundred seventy-seven."
I thumbed through the pages. We both said, "Vivian."
"I think we just found a girl's name," I said.
The next day, the name discussion continued. Miraculously, we were no longer in the taxi, but at home.
"How about the name 'Humphrey'?" Chris asked.
I looked at him in shock and said, "You're kidding, right?"
He said, "No, I like Humphrey."
"But I like it. I really do."
"I don't care if it was your grandfather's name and he died in the war saving the lives of three children who went on to win the Nobel Prize for something. It's horrible."
"Look," I said, "I'm carrying the babies, so I have veto power. If you name our son Humphrey, I'll kill you."
Chris shrugged. I grabbed the baby name book and opened to Humphrey.
"It means peaceful warrior," I said.
"See? That's nice."
"What the hell's a peaceful warrior? It's a bloody oxymoron. I think the second meaning is beat-me-up-at-school."
"You know, any name can be made fun of."
"No, it can't," I said. "Some names are above that."
"Try me," Chris said.
"Give me a name. Any name. I'll make fun of it."
"OK, how about Zack?"
With a delay of 0.03 seconds, Chris sang, "Zack, Zack, rhymes with butt crack."
I tried another one. "Michael."
"Mike, Mike, you're a dyke."
"You've made your point," I conceded. "But I still hate Humphrey." I looked back at the book. "After the meaning, it says 'see also Onofrio and Onufrey.'"
"See what?" Chris asked.
"Onofrio and Onufrey," I said. "They're names that are similar to Humphrey. So there we go," I said, dropping comfortably into sarcasm, "if our babies are boys, we can name them Onofrio and Onufrey. Or Ono and Onu for short."
This time, Chris conceded. "OK, you've made your point."
Thankfully, we didn't need to register our babies' names to attend prenatal classes at Bangkok's most prestigious hospital. It was the first of three classes that some childless administrator had scheduled over the supper hour, the time of day your blood sugar crashes. When your circulatory system has nearly twice the normal blood volume, that sugar crash can be akin to free falling off a cliff. Chris and I walked into the hospital, foolishly bypassing Starbucks, and took the elevator to the ninth floor. We took a glass of sugary orange drink. Nutritional content was overrated.
After checking in, we sat on the floor in a conference room that was devoid of chairs. With seven couples against one wall and seven against the other, I wondered if we'd play a game of Red Rover as an icebreaker. A lone projector sat in the middle of the floor, like a cactus popping out of a desert. A young Thai woman — who was so small that she'd make Angelina Jolie look like she ate McFood daily — smiled, bowed, and started the PowerPoint. I squinted, trying to differentiate the white font from its pale yellow background, and I ended up wondering if my bad vision meant I had sudden-onset gestational diabetes.
When PowerPoint #1 was finished, a woman from public relations took us on a guided tour of the ward. The first things we saw were the high-end maternity suites, complete with a bedroom, a living room, and a full-size fridge.
"Where are the nor-maall rooms?" I asked.
"In the other hallway," she said. "We won't be seeing them."
Next she took us to a delivery room, showcasing the overhead light dimmer.
"Turning down the lights," she explained, "takes away the pain."
Who knew it was that easy? "Remind me to give birth in the dark," I whispered to Chris.
We returned to the chair-less conference room. After introducing the physiotherapist, the tour guide informed us that we were about to experience her favorite part. This highlight consisted of three minutes of yoga lessons, including the following instructions:
"Breathe in, breathe out, shut your eyes."
Chris leaned over. "If you shut your eyes," he whispered, "it'll be dark, which means no pain."
The physiotherapist reminded us that we needed to do fifty Kegel exercises a day, which was forty more than I'd done in my life.
Two weeks later, we were back for the second prenatal class — or as the hospital called it, antenatal class. Not having spoken Latin in my past couple lifetimes, I became confused and thought this meant they were anti-birth.
No matter. I was all ears as I sat my expansive butt on the ground because the focus of this class was birthing, which sounded somewhat relevant. I was now five months along and had gained thirty-one pounds, which made sitting on the floor as comfortable as sticking a fondue fork between two vertebrae and twisting.
We began with a video entitled Birth Is Women's Work, a film that advocated home births. It was surreal to be sitting in a hospital hearing about natural birth, when the C-section rate at Thai private hospitals was 70 percent and rising, given my impending multiple birth C-section.
After the film, a knowledgeable, western-trained doctor explained the statistic to us, somewhat critically. Wealthy Thai women, he said, tend to request C-sections. It was a sign of prosperity, and it allowed them to select an propitious date, such as the king or queen's birthday. "That's the woo-woo part," I whispered to Chris. But it was the doctor's third reason that made me record his words verbatim. "Many women," he said, "are scared their vagina will be stretched to the extent their husbands will leave them." I was starting to see why the hospital emphasized doing Kegels and giving birth in the dark. The doctor added, "Most of the time their husbands leave them anyway." I glared at Chris. Don't even think about it, buddy.
The ob-gyn went on to explain that doctors also get more money for performing C-sections. Even in a prestigious private hospital, he said, doctors were only paid $240 for a normal delivery.
"Do you think we need to tip our obstetrician?" I asked Chris.
The doctor ended his message with a gentle plea to all who weren't carrying multiples — he smiled at us, knowing full well that we were stuck with a C-section — to consider natural delivery.
He ended his plea by saying, "I don't know how women do it." I looked at Chris. "We're in trouble if our doctor doesn't know how women do it."
The doctor left, and a nurse started another PowerPoint presentation on what to expect before and during the birth or, in our case, births.
Her second slide made me pause:
What is it for?
Food and Drinks
Chris and I started laughing.
"So," he said, "are the Food and Drinks related to the shaving or to the enemas?"
"No idea. Which one is preferable?" I added.
"And what is it for?"
We were the naughty kids with numb butts who were not much closer to figuring out how women did it.
YOU THOUGHT TELLING ME I HAVE GOOD STATS FOR A FOOTBALL PLAYER WOULD BE FUNNY?
In my fifth month of pregnancy, my waist — if you could call it that — measured a whopping forty-three inches, more than a foot bigger than it did in my pre-pregnancy days. This might not seem huge, but situate me in Thailand, home to women whose waists measure in the teens, and I was Mommy Behemoth.
A friend from Texas visited around this time: a gym teacher who had a waist. As I inhaled my second order of chicken fried rice, I said, "I'm a walking Astrodome."
"You are not," she said.
"Is there a bigger stadium in Texas then?"
"Yeah, there are a few."
"Don't tell me about them."
I added sugar to my tea.
"Do you use hula hoops in your PE classes?" I continued.
She paused. "Not very often."
"I don't think I could fit in a hula hoop. And I still have months to go."
I ended my masochistic rant with a sigh.
"You know," she said, "there are a lot of people who think the Astrodome is pretty nice."
Excerpted from "Don't Lick The Minivan"
Copyright © 2013 Leanne Shirtliffe.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction: A Rambling Preamble, or How This Came to Be xiii
A word to the reader, or more precisely, 452 words to the reader xiii
Get that train off your penis xv
Part 1 Pregnancy and Birth, or Is This Really Happening? 1
So the accountant got her aunt to do some woo-woo on our unborn babies? 3
Were in trouble if our doctor doesn't know how women do it 9
You thought telling me I have good stats for a football player would be funny? 15
Do you think it's heretical if I refer to myself as the Trinity? 19
Why do so many people say stupid things to pregnant women? 23
Can you imagine if Tarantino made a film about pregnancy and birth? 27
The Sappy Files, Part 1 (or Why My Kids' Future Therapists Should Be Kind) 30
Part 2 The First Twelve Months, or The I-Barely-Remember Year 33
Please take these crying things away 35
Follow that car. My babies are in there 39
Can you stop selling boob-show passes to our guests? 45
Do you think they dropped our babies into a big vat of soup? 53
You spit at the taxi driver while pushing the stroller? 59
How long were those drunken women holding our babies? 64
We travel with our own dual airbags 72
I'm screwing up our kids 81
We're scarring them for life 82
The Sappy Files, Part 2 (or Why My Kids' Future Therapists Should Believe I'm Somewhat Sane) 86
Part 3 The Toddler Years, or Reasons to Start a Therapy Fund 89
We need to outwit, outlast, outnumber our kids 91
I'm swearing my way to cleanliness 97
Would you put your penis away? 104
Mommy will sneeze like Donald Duck if you pick up your toys 109
You don't need clothes to be a dancer 117
The Sappy Files, Part 3 (or Why My Son's Future Therapists Should Adore Him) 124
Part 4 Preschool, or Who Taught You That? 127
Eating kids' Halloween candy is a community service 129
We can use the money from the kids' account to pay the credit card bill 136
Did you pee on Minnie Mouse on purpose? 145
You can buy a baby at the hospital 149
It's not an ice cream truck, it's a vegetable truck 154
Hop on Pop, if you know what I mean 159
Who told you that you should breathe through your mouth when daddies poo? 171
The Sappy Files, Part 4 (or Why My Kids' Future Therapists Should Believe I Don't Need to Be Committed. Yet.) 176
Part 5 Kindergarten, or Why I Had a Breakdown 181
I put the mental in environmental 183
A homeless princess and a lion preparing for a flood, excellent choice of costumes 191
Her puke ruined the new car smell 196
Did you actually lick the tire? 202
Do you want to come to Stripper Barbie's funeral? 207
If you can't stop laughing, think of something sad, like dead puppies 214
I can't cope anymore 222
The Sappy Files, Part 5 (or Why My Daughter's Future Therapists Should Adore Her) 225
Part 6 Beyond Kindergarten, or Putting the Fun in Dysfunction 227
Stop using your straw to suck up spaghetti 229
You can't shoot people in church 237
He put the hose down the vent and turned on the water 243
The next time you come out of that room, you'd better be bleeding 252
I love the sound of vacuuming up LEGO in the morning 257
I'll smuggle some Pinot Grigio in the kids' water bottles 263
The Sappy Files, Part 6 (or Why My Kids' Therapists Should Have a Drink, Unless They're Alcoholics, in Which Case Don't. Blame. Me.) 271
The Post-Amble, or The Sappy-File Finale 273
The Final Sappy File (or Why I Need to Laugh) 273
Acknowledgments, or People I Didn't Forget to Thank 275
Resources, or High Tech-y Stuff 277
Index, or A Completely Unhelpful but Accurate Classification 279
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Leanne and her husband while living in Bangkok, Thailand find they are going to be the parents of twins. She manages to find so many ways to keep up her spirits while gestating two babes along the way. But in spite of deep-fried bug cuisine and nurses who cover newborn bassinets with plastic wrap, Shirtliffe enriches her life with the help of a Coca-Cola deliveryman, waitresses who engage her, and of all things... a bra factory. Their return back to Canada after such an adventure abroad is anticlimactic indeed. With honesty, wit and much humour she gives her take on raising her twins. She reveals her ups and downs, joys, fears, parental anxieties and the awesomeness of being a parent. She shares: The birthday party where neighourhood kids contracted skin rashes because of the second-hand face paint she used on them. Oh boy, the time her twins were happily tattooing their names into her minivan's paint with rocks. The last rights she administered to "Stripper Barbie" because it was her appointed time to go... appointed by Leanne herself and... How glitter changed her life and will never again be a welcome visitor in her home... ever! 9 Funny Parenting Theories from "Don't Lick the Minivan" 1. Dimming the lights takes away labor pain. 2. Every baby name can be made fun of. 3. Raising twins is easy after six months. 4. Procreation clarifies the purpose of arrange marriage, boarding school, and birth control 5. Kids love babysitters more than parents. 6. The most interesting conversations happen in vehicles or canoes. 7. Scrimping on Band-Aids helps save money for college. 8. Lazy parenting creates kids who are self-starters. 9. Lord of the Flies is a more useful parenting primer than Dr. Spock. Enjoy everyone, I know you will!
It blows my mind how many women in my generation are just like me, truly in the last five books I have read I have thought “I am not alone” at least once a page. Every couple of chapters there would be a paragraph that addressed something that happened to me just that day and I would double over with laughter or horror! Don’t Lick the Minivan: And Other Things I Never Thought I'd Say to My Kids is hysterical and so inclusive I’ve found myself putting post-it’s in the book marking especially hysterical stories or sayings that were so similar to my own that I could have sworn I wrote the book. Leanne Shirtliffe’s gift for writing makes you feel like you’re having a conversation instead of stilted and stuffy essay. I found myself reading as if it were a compilation of emails; I was talking to her on the phone or having cocktails. Her experiences in parenting overseas made me both jealous and grateful that our baby years were so boring and climate controlled. The book is perfectly paced, her writing quick-witted and real – she includes the good and the absolute crazy. She included convenient Parenting Tips that made me laugh out loud, perfect for the extremely lazy or short-timed cliff-note users , example “Parenting Tip: Develop selective listening skills. Practice on your spouse.” Shirtliffe effortlessly reaches back to the pre-baby years and works her way forward, reminding me of the parts I’ve buried deep, deep, deep down like returning to work and having to deal with overfull breasts bursting like little fire hydrants, long nights of breastfeeding and the desire to make my husband get up and entertain me, how immature I was during our prenatal classes and how I had no idea how we were going to survive that first year. Don’t Lick the Minivan assures me that its ok not to wash your kid every single day, that kids will put all kinds of weird stuff in their mouths, that all husbands look at us like we are crazy and that at some point we all want to hand our kid to a stranger long enough to pee alone. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and if you have a sense of humor you will too! I received a copy of this book for the purpose of this review.
Don't Lick the Minivan: And Other Things I Never Thought I’d Say to My Kids by Leanne Shirtliffe is a terrific book for moms! I love the part in this book where she found her kids carving their names in the minivan with rocks because my daughter did the exact same thing to my car. There's so many similarities in Don't Lick the Minivan by Leanne Shirtliffe to my life as a mother and I'm sure to most moms. I love books that help us mothers realize our family is normal and that most parents have the same struggles we have. This book helps me let go and focus on being a good mom and not worrying about all the little things. It has also helped me look back on moments and laugh. The parenting tips throughout the book are a hoot. What and awesome book! Disclosure: I received product(s) for free, in exchange for my honest review. I only recommend products I've used personally, and believe will be good fit for consumers.
I'm not finished yet, but it doesn't matter. For every parent anywhere in the world: read this book. Outrageous, funny, heartfelt and so so true. Leanne Shirtliffe's voice is pitch-perfect, reflecting the joys, anxieties, frustrations and wonder of parenthood. As a grandparent of twins, I can so relate to the tales of supernatural communication between the identical spawn; it makes me want become a kid's birthday party clown - just for the the visceral thrill of creating nightmares. Only for those that deserve it, of course.
I LOVED IT! Leanne gives a refreshingly honest take on pregnancy, delivery, flu shots, piano lessons, and all things arts and crafts (hint, she hates crafts and has banned glitter from the home). And the trips! Road trips and plane trips galore, with hilarity ensuing on each leg of their journeys. These aren't your run of the mill two hour drive to the beach or a quick three hour plane ride kind of trips, they are drives across Canada and flights across oceans. With twins! In addition, it's filled with "Parenting Tips". Here's my favorites: Parenting Tip: When you ask your children a question, the reply "nothing" means they're guilty. Either investigate or hide. Parenting Tip: A regular routine of brushing and flossing is essential the three days before your children's dentist appointments if you want to appear to be a good parent. In summary, this book is heartwarming and hilarious, and smothered with sarcasm. I highly recommend!