The Suffering of Children

I work in a bookstore. And during my stay as a bookseller, I've obtained an enlightened point of view on an aspect of retail.

I sincerely enjoy the suffering of children.

Now, before you label me as monster let me give you a few examples. There was a little boy who was in the children's section for several hours with his parents. While there he apparently became very fond of a certain stuffed animal snake. He even named it — "Snake."

As his parents approached the checkout counter, he realized that they in fact were not bringing Snake home. It was doom. "SNAKE!" he yelled, as if his reptilian companion were trapped in a fire, "SNAAAAAAKE!"

I loved that.

An interesting sidenote — even though I work at a bookstore, the children only seem to be fazed when they can't get a stuffed animal. There has been no child screaming "TOLSTOY! TOLSTOOOOOY!".

There was a separate incident, very similar, in which a little boy wanted a crocodile toy. My roommate contends that these must be the same incident, since they are so similar, but they were entirely different occurrences.

Children have their own way of hyperventilating: "hunh, hunh, I w-want the krok-o-die-yul." This boy sounded like you had killed his whole family in front of him. "Ker-ock-o-die-yul... hunh, hunh." Heavy breathing and sobbing. His whole world was destroyed. It made my night.

These kids are pure id. They don't know how to suck it up. They don't know how to let things go. When they are sad, they cry. When they forget they are sad, they stop crying. Kids haven't learned how to bottle up these things. It reminds me that I too, way down deep, have a thousand crocodiles, a thousand Snakes, millions of teeny disappointments that I have swallowed, ingested and buried. And that I should let them go.

Thanks, you rotten little brats.

— Dan Norton (dan@flakmag.com)