Early in my marriage, I had a discussion – okay, probably more like a heated debate– with my wife after I declared I would have no reservations about secretly reading our children’s journals or diaries or letters or e-mails (blogs were still well in the future, but they would have been on the list, too, for sure).
It was my responsibility as a parent, I argued, to stay well informed of my kids’ thoughts and tribulations. A parent should be in tune with their child’s worries, concerns, hopes, and anxieties, I said. That’s how you don’t become one of those parents surprised to learn your kid is building Molotov cocktails in the garage. If that kind of parental awareness required me to casually glance at their journals or e-mails every now and then, I was all for it.
My wife was appalled by my stance. She was annoyingly insistent on referring to what I called my parental responsibility as “invasion of privacy.”
“I’m not invading anyone’s privacy,” I said, irked by the audacious accusation. “I’m just finding out what’s going on. That’s not invasion of privacy. That’s loving concern.”
“You’re just nosy,” she said.
“Bah,” I said.
It’s probably been 10 years since we had that discussion and my position hasn’t changed much, except to acknowledge I have learned that my wife may have been right. In addition to a sincere interest in what is going on in my children’s lives and minds, I might just be a tad nosy.
I did not gain this insight from reading anything written by my children, however, which makes what happened all the more unfortunate.
One of my brothers was going through a rough period last year and I gave him a simple black journal with the suggestion he use it as an outlet for his thoughts and experiences. I thought it might help because I believe in the positive power of the written word. I wasn’t sure he would write in the journal, but he acted appreciative.
A couple months later, he and I spent a quiet afternoon at his home watching football. It was a fine time of brotherly bonding. Things took a disastrous turn, though, when on a trip to the bathroom, I was pleasantly surprised to see the journal I had given him months back on a shelf beside the toilet.
Huh, I thought. I wonder if he’s writing in it.
I reached for the black book.
Now, I contend to this day and will unto the grave that all I intended to do was check to see if my brother was using the journal. I did not intend to read it – that would have been nosy. I was just curious, and that’s not nosy. (I am adept at drawing fine distinctions to justify my actions.)
With one hand, I braced the spine of the book with three fingers and used my thumb to splay the white lined pages. Writing filled the front.
Great, I thought, he’s using it.
And then my brother pounded at the bathroom door, and I flinched. A good indicator of whether you’re up to something you shouldn’t be is flinching. The innocent don’t flinch.
The flinch caused me to lose my grip on the journal, and it tumbled from my hand. I moved to catch it, but only managed to knock it at a downward angle.
Oh, how I wish I could report that falling journal filled with my brother’s deepest, most private feelings landed on the floor. Oh, how I wish I could say it landed in the sink or on the counter.
But it most certainly did not.
No, my brother’s journal, given to him out of love and concern and holding a handwritten record of his daily contemplations, landed smack-dab in the unflushed toilet.
I cannot recall being so mortified.
I retrieved the journal from the toilet bowl and began frantically dabbing it with a towel.
“What are you doing in there?” my brother called.
“Nothing,” I said with a hint of panic. “Just finishing up. Be out in a sec.”
I hastily returned the still-soaked journal to the shelf and opened the door. My brother stood there, eying me suspiciously.
“Were you reading my journal?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said, pushing past him. “Let’s go watch football.”
But I must have failed to conceal the guilt radiating from my face because he walked into the bathroom and took his journal from the shelf.
“Why’s it wet?” he asked.
“Got me,” I said. “Come on, let’s go watch some football.”
He raised the journal to his nose. “Why,” he asked, “does it smell like pee?”
Yes, well, I had no good answer for that one. I broke down. I confessed all. I begged his forgiveness, I pled innocent intentions, I condemned gravity for its folly.
“I flinched!” I cried.
My brother shook his head in amazement and disgust. To have looked in his journal was bad enough, but to then have dropped it in pee took the invasion of privacy to a whole different level.
My brother has since forgiven me, but I learned my lesson that day: never invade someone’s privacy while using the privy. When I next look at my kids private writings, I’ll make sure first that I’m well away from all sources of water and I’ll use two hands.
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