My Daddy works in a very big hospital. He works very hard. He is not a doctor; he is a nurse. He has a stethoscope and a thermometer, and he takes care of people who are sick."" The nine other daddies described here in similar insipid sentences are also in traditionally female occupations; there's a librarian (""He helps children find the books they want to read. There are hundreds of books in his library but he can almost always find the right one""), a telephone operator (this one, compounding the role reversal, ""usually works in the evening so he can take his kids to school. . . and give them their lunch too""), an office worker (""He can type very fast without even looking at the typewriter""), even a homemaker. But alas, the authors' false attempts to make taking temperatures and finding books and typing fast seem marvelous accomplishments only remind us why the people in these occupations lack the glamor of a surgeon or a policeman or a bulldozer-driver. Without much thought beyond the idea that it's okay for daddies to do these jobs (Wandro himself is a nurse daddy, Blank his therapist wife), this has nothing but bland good intentions to recommend it. And with its utilitarian primer-print paragraphs, facing instant-message black line drawings on marginless full pages, it looks like a pamphlet promoting vitamins or dental hygiene.