I Knew There Was A Reason Children Frightened Me

Eva, a dear friend of mine, leant me a few books awhile back, one of them being “Little Children” by Tom Perrotta. I recalled there had been a film adaptation of the book sometime in the last five years starring Kate Winslet. It was a “sad modern drama,” the sort of movie I rarely go to see unless it’s nominated for a million awards, and often not even then. The book sat on my shelf, staring at me, reminding me that if not for my friend, never in a million years would I have picked it up or even considered reading it. But I trusted Eva, and Kate Winslet, not to steer me wrong.

“Little Children,” is a simple story in plot, but a complex story in terms of the human’s ability to mess up their own life. The novel focuses on three characters: Sarah, a disheveled and unhappy young mother; Todd, a gorgeous stay at home dad; and Ronald, a pedophile recently released from prison. Rest assured, this is not one of those depressing stories like Sapphire’s “Push” where children are abused and raped and then overcome obstacles. I don’t want to trivialize such things when they happen in real life, but too frequently do screenwriters and novelists, who know nothing of such dark experiences, try to capitalize on human tragedy and end up turning it into wretched melodrama. “Little Children” is free of that kind of exaggerated horror. Sarah and Todd meet on a playground, and feel an instant connection, each offering the other something missing in their, if not miserable, then at least mediocre lives. An affair proceeds and falls apart over the course of a summer. Again, so simple, and yet so loaded with emotion and experience.

As I began the novel, all I could think about was how much it made me NOT want to have children. When Sarah forgets her three-year-old daughter’s snack at the playground, she can only sit, hopeless and numb, as the little girl screams her head off. Todd finds himself getting jealous of his own son when his wife refuses to move the boy out of their bed so they might have an intimate night together. What affected me the most on a personal level was when Perrotta discussed Sarah’s decline into failure. As a young, feminist college student, Sarah dreamed of teaching young women, changing their lives. But time passes, she drops out of grad school, and is still working at Starbucks into her late twenties. Maybe it’s a post traumatic stress flashback to my retail days. All I kept thinking was how such a life could have happened to me. I have creative dreams, and I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. Watching someone who had such spirit as a youth crumble into such a generic suburban drone made me want to cry. I have nothing against people having children, if they want kids. Some people should have them and some people shouldn’t. For those that do, I would love to hear their perspective on such a book as this. I have to wonder, how much of my horror at Sarah’s plight came from my own fears projected onto the text. Or was that the author’s intent? All I know is that the further I read, the more anxious I became.

The power of excellent writing, and this is excellent writing, dear little blogflowers, is to convince readers to feel a certain way, when it goes against every natural instinct. For example, even though Sarah is the other woman, the one ruining lives and wrecking homes, I was still on her side. Perrotta makes Sarah so vulnerable and sad, and Todd’s wife confident and beautiful in contrast, that it made me happy when he cheated on her. Now in real life, my feelings on cheating are very clear. It’s basically a zero tolerance policy. Yet, I hated Todd’s wife. I hated her for her model good looks, and how she was constantly nagging Todd to take the bar exam so she could be a stay at home mom. I wanted Todd to leave her. I felt like she deserved it. Isn’t that odd, the emotional connections we often have to art.

Then there’s that whole little bit about the pedophile. Every time another character belittled or abused Ronald, my gut instinct was to feel bad for him. Then almost in the same breath, Perrotta would make Ronald say or do something so despicable, you’d almost feel disgusted with yourself for feeling that moment of sympathy.

I should have hated this book. It was depressing and offered no happy ending, no silver lining, just pure unadulterated life. You may be as resistant to read this book as I was, but trust me, the writing is two hundred dollar wine. For a few days of reading, it will make you feel more thoughtful and in turn, smarter than everyone else you know.