Notes of a disenchanted mom reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Tim started enjoying solo reading when he was about the age Holly is now, whereas she still expects me to read her a bedtime chapter or two every night. As a result, this is my first time through the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series. When Tim was in third grade, he too pored over these wildly popular graphic novels, but he read them to himself, whereas Holly has chosen them for nighttime reading with me this week.

And I have to say, so far I’m not a big fan. Somehow I don’t think author Jeff Kinney will miss me much; he’s spent over a year on the New York Times bestseller list in the children’s fiction genre, so to say I’m in the minority is an understatement. Forty million copies of Wimpy Kid books are in print to date, and Kinney produced the feature film based on his series earlier this year.

My problem seems to be that as a reader, I simply can’t accept vapidity in a protagonist. Greg Heffley, the titular character, isn’t just wimpy. He’s whiny, trite, incurious and self-absorbed. No one’s mind is expanding by getting inside of his thoughts. No one is developing a larger frame of reference for the world by learning how he views his universe.

It’s not that I’m such a traditionalist where children’s literature is concerned. I’ve read some terrific new novels with my kids in the past five years or so that I savored just as much as any of the books of my childhood. And I’ve read some that were perfectly decent even if not brilliant.

But my theory about what’s wrong with books like Diary of a Wimpy Kid has to do with the fact that many of these authors were children in the 1970s, just as I was. And middle grade literature went through a significant change around that time, with authors like Judy Blume demonstrating a new kind of realism. These authors provided evidence that protagonists of children’s books could be lifelike rather than exemplary: regular kids, not paragons. It turned out you didn’t have to be as sanguine as Anne of Green Gables, as quirky as Harriet the Spy or as brave as Bonnie and Sylvia in The Wolves of Willoughby Chase to be a hero(ine). You could be a real kid, with fears, anxieties, insecurities, and hopes that might seem silly at times.

But I think there’s more to it than just an acknowledgment that real kids fight with their siblings and fear looking foolish on the soccer field. Blume’s characters, and dozens of other protagonists from fine examples of contemporary children’s literature, might have reminded kids of themselves, but they also had one crucial characteristic that the wimpy kid does not. They had introspection. They didn’t just witness the world; they contemplated it with a cerebral depth that lent them a certain degree of bravery. Blume’s characters, for example, pondered spirituality, cultural differences, moral decisions and prejudice. What made them appealing wasn’t just their realism; it was their depth. And depth is what Greg Heffley lacks – even depth as far as personal ambition.

Holly realizes I’m not crazy about this series. She likes it, because the wimpy kid gets to complain all he wants – after all, it’s his narrative -- and that’s exciting to a child who is discouraged from whining. And I do understand the argument that children’s librarians and teachers offer in favor of these books: for some kids, books like this are all that gets them to read anything at all, and something is definitely better than nothing when it comes to kids and reading.

So I shouldn’t be so quick to disparage. I’d rather read about characters who inspire me a little bit, even if they are only nine years old. But Holly should be allowed to judge for herself. And if these are the books that get her to read on her own, then she should indulge as much as she wants. But I won’t be a bit sorry if she sneaks off to read these in private – and saves the headier texts to read with me.