Diary of a Wimpy Kid


My daughter is 6-years old, and she recently completed her first full-length book, Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

I am conflicted.

On the one hand, I’m thrilled by her interest in books. We started force-feeding print upon her when Casey was just an infant. She’d lie on her back, and the wife and I would go through one book after another—Green Eggs and Ham and The Very Lazy Rabbit and Birthday Monsters and on and on. We’d point to each word, sound out the syllables, etc … etc. So, when I now see her turning pages on her own, it’s bliss.

That said, Diary of a Wimpy Kid is, eh, not good. Yeah, it’s funny. And quirky. But in a nasty Sponge Bob sort of way (My kids aren’t allowed to watch Sponge Bob). When Jordan, my 9-year-old, nephew reads Dairy of a Wimpy Kid, I’m cool. But he’s 9, and pretty much gets the full humor behind nose picking and butt jokes and slacking off in class and shifting the blame on other kids. He grasps the separation between joke and reality.

Casey doesn’t. At least I don’t think she does. But the book is all the rage. Tons upon tons upon tons of kids her age reading it … loving it … absorbing it … sounding out the words.


PS: That said, better Diary of a Wimpy Kid than Boys Will Be Boys.