A collection of mordantly hilarious and sharply-observed stories on motherhood from the bestselling author of Family—The Ties That Bind . . . And Gag! Erma Bombeck has learned a few things about children and family over the years—and in a way that is uniquely and wonderfully her own, she shares everything she knows with her readers. Whether it's cleaning up after the kids and him, or expendable mothers-in-law, Erma Bombeck gets to the heart of the matter and makes us laugh through our tears. Praise for I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression   “A truly wise and funny woman; a laugh-till-you-cry book.” — Library Journal   “The smiles never stop until the last chapter ends with a poignant insight into growing up and being a parent.” — The Abilene Reporter-News Erma Bombeck  was America's favorite humorist at the time of her death in 1996. Ten of her 13 books, including  Forever, Erma , appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. She claimed her first fiction writing was the weather forecast in the Dayton Herald . Her favorite food was pasta, and her hobby was dust. Ironed Sheets Are a Health Hazard   Before you read this book, there are a few things you should know about me.   I consider ironed sheets a health hazard.   Children should be judged on what they are—a punishment for an early marriage.   There is no virtue in waxing your driveway.   Husbands are married for better or worse—but not for lunch.   Renaissance women were beautiful and never heard of Weight Watchers.   Mothers-in-law who wear a black armband to the wedding are expendable.   Missing a nap gives you bad skin.   Men who have a thirty-six-televised-football-games-a-week-habit should be declared legally dead and their estates probated.   For years, I have worked at being a simple, average housewife. I am ready to face the facts. I’m a loser. Excitement for me is taking a Barbie bra out of the sweeper bag. Fulfillment is realizing I am the only one in the house who can replace the toilet-tissue spindle. Adventure is seeing Tom Jones perform and throwing my hotel key at his feet (only to discover it’s the key to my freezer).   Would it shock you to know that as an average housewife I have never been invited to an aspirin lecture? You know the commercial I’m talking about. There’s this ratio-balanced roomful of people sitting around finding out everything they’ve always wanted to know about aspirin but were afraid to ask.   “Can I drive a car after taking aspirin? Can I take aspirin with other medication? What are the ingredients of aspirin?” I worry about me. I don’t want to know anything about aspirin.   After twenty-three years of marriage, you would have thought that once during that time some stranger would have called and asked me what laxative I use. My kids never tell me what the dentist said. My husband never smells his shirts and smiles. We rarely spend an evening sitting around reading the ingredients on dog-food cans. And I can’t tell you when was the last time my husband offered to shampoo my hair.   I was telling my neighbor, Mayva, how commercials had evaded me and she said, “You ninny, let me see your handbag.”   I opened it to reveal the usual collection of women’s junk.   “That’s your problem,” she said. “You’ll never get into a commercial traveling like that.” She opened her purse. In it was a large bottle of Milk of Magnesia (“You never know when you are going to sit on a park bench with someone who needs a coating on their stomach.”), a package of breath mints, a pound of Mountain Grown coffee, a hair spray, a bottle of dishwashing detergent, a compound to soak your dentures, a can of floor wax, a room deodorizer, and two rolls of (whisper) toilet paper.   “If you want to be a normal, average housewife,” she said, “you’ve got to be ready for ’em.”   Yesterday, I knocked on Mayva’s door. “Guess what?” I said. “It worked. I almost got in a commercial. I was in the supermarket and I was approached by this man who wanted to know what laundry soap I used. I opened my handbag and showed him this big box. He was pleased as punch. He said, ‘What would you say if I told you I’d give you two boxes of an inferior brand for this one?’ I told him I’d say, ‘You’re on, Barney!’”   “You blew it,” said Mayva softly.   “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said.   I suppose I should be depressed, but I have a theory there are some things in this life you cannot control. It’s psychological defeat. No matter what you do you cannot win.   Take my son. The other day I dropped him off at the tennis court and as his opponent walked over to introduce himself, my son froze. After the boy left, he slumped to the bench, holding his head between his knees. “Did you see him, Mom?” he asked miserably. “He was wearing a sweat band.”   I could have cried for him. Any fool knows sweat bands always finish first. I wanted to comfort him, but in my heart, I knew the outcome. He was psychologically