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