This is an almost embarrassingly autobiographical book about how it's tricky balancing a busy career and family, and how it can do a number on your marriage. It's a sequel to The Devil Wears Scrubs, but I wrote it so you don't have to read the first book to enjoy it.
Not sure? Here's an excerpt:
When the package from Amazon arrives at our front door, I am so excited.
I immediately carry the huge brown box into our living room, where Ben and Leah are sitting together on the couch. Ben’s got his laptop, as usual, but he’s looking at it with Leah this time. They’re on YouTube and he’s showing her videos of animals doing funny things. Leah is having a great time. I hear her giggling nonstop, with occasion interjections of, “Aw!” or “Oh no!” and once, “Do you think it’s dead?”
Ben straightens up on the couch when he sees me dump the package on the floor. “What’s that?”
Leah’s eyes widen. “A present?”
“Yes.” I brandish a pair of scissors in my hand. “It’s a really special present for Leah!”
Technically, that’s true.
“Is it a birthday present?” she asks.
“It’s not your birthday yet,” I tell her.
“Happy birthday to Mommy, happy Mommy to Mommy,” she chants as I grab a scissors to cut the tape on the box. Leah is practically climbing on top of me to get to the contents. She doesn’t seem entirely thrilled when she sees what’s inside.
It’s a potty. But not just a potty. This is a Frozen-themed princess potty, covered with drawings of icicles and a picture of Queen Elsa on the seat. And when you successfully pee in it, it plays several bars of, “Let It Go.” This is the Rolls Royce of potties.
“We already have a potty,” Ben says.
“Yeah, Mommy,” Leah agrees. “We’ve got the froggy.”
That’s the potty Ben bought her. It’s green and looks like a frog. When I saw that potty, I knew Leah would never go for it. It’s not even pink!
“This one is better,” I explain. “Leah, if you go pee-pee in it, it will play, ‘Let It Go.’”
Ben grins at me. “Shouldn’t it play that before she pees?”
“Shut-up.” I unwrap the remaining pieces of the potty and put the finished product in front of my daughter. “Leah, do you want to try using your brand new potty?”
Leah looks at the potty thoughtfully. “Okay.”
I feel a thrill of victory when Leah pulls down her pants and pull-ups to sit on her new potty. I sit down next to her cross-legged, because going to the bathroom is a group activity for a three year old—I love how she has no inkling of a desire for privacy. I once was in the bathroom myself and I asked Leah to give me privacy—she left for a moment, then came back and handed me the charger for my phone.
Ben watches Leah crouched on her princess potty, shaking his head, “I’m telling you, Jane. This could be done in one weekend. One weekend.”
“This new potty is going to work,” I insist.
It has to. Because I refuse to change a four year old’s diapers.
I hear my phone buzz from where I left it on the coffee table. Then it buzzes a second time. Ben is standing about a foot away from it, and I see him glance down. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems to do a double-take when he sees what’s on the screen.
“Jane.” He lifts his brown eyes to meet mine. “Who’s Ryan?”
I get this sudden sick feeling in my stomach. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes are still trained on mine. “Somebody named Ryan wrote to you, ‘Lunch tomorrow?’ Then, ‘Think about it before you say no.’”