Diary of a Wombat

Jackie French

As unseemly as it may be for a thirty-seven-year-old man, I've read a lot of kids' books in my time. And not just when I was knee high to a grasshopper, either; I still read them. I have, for example, an inordinate fondness for badgers, and read all sorts of books about them, including kids' books. The same, for reasons that would take far too long to relate, holds true for wombats, so Jackie French's Diary of a Wombat was a no-brainer. In general, I look at recent kids' books (and, were I to admit the truth to myself, probably a large number of those I read as a kid) and wonder why adult writers didn't figure out as kids that subtle humor really does work on the younger set. Thankfully, some writers either figured it out or are just naturally more subtle than others. Praise Jackie French to the highest skies for bringing together wombats and really, really good humor in one volume.

I haven't laughed out loud while reading a kids' book in months, if not years. I can't remember doing so more than once at any kids' book I've read in the past decade, and it's rare when I read adult novels, too. Diary of a Wombat, once it gets rolling (you'll notice it starts off slow; the kids won't), had me in stitches. French plays every joke as if the wombat is his own straight man (he is, of course, being a wombat), and it works marvelously. You don't have an anthropomorphized character here; the wombat is a wombat, pure and simple. (Except he seems to know how to write well enough to keep a diary.) It's his simple reactions to the obstacles in his way that make this such a fun read; it's worlds away from those old Warner Brothers cartoons where Wile E. Coyote devises Rube Goldberg-esque plans to get around his obstacles, and all the funnier for that.

Wonderful. Your kids need a copy of this. If you don't have kids, you need a copy of this.