On Parents and Confidentiality − February, 1984
The funny thing about the parent/child relationship is that there is no doctor/patient, lawyer/client, or priest/repentant confidentiality. What you tell one parent in assumed confidence, the other parent will know by the end of the day. I think we all know this instinctively the day we are born. Parents will raise us, protect us, nurture us, and tattle on us to each other.
This particular day, I was really pissed off. I don't remember what it was about, but knowing me, it was something stupid. Most likely, I was sent to my room for doing something I shouldn't have. (Though, it was probably my sister or brothers that did it and I was just the scapegoat.)
I was sent to my room as punishment, and there I stewed. Damn, I was mad, and I had no outlet. I wasn't much of a screamer/yeller when I got mad. I paced the room like a Las Vegas white tiger waiting for that dumbass Roy to step just an inch closer.
Boiling point reached, I stopped by my dresser and kicked the wall in frustration. Only my foot didn't stop at the wall.
A nice 10-inch hole appeared around my foot. At the time I was not familiar with drywall and its weaknesses.
Shit, shit, shit. I am in deep shit.
I pushed my dresser over a few feet to cover the hole. Perfect. Can't see a thing.
After that, I forgot all about the hole and went on with my life.
Not really, but it would have been nice. No, my conscience ate at me night and day. It came to the point where I could no longer stand the nagging voice in the back of my head; I had to confess.
For some reason, I felt that I would be better off telling dad. Usually mom was considered the softie. I brought dad down to my bedroom, pushed the dresser out of the way, and showed him my handiwork.
"I kicked that hole in the wall."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I was mad. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell mom."
Again, I don't know why I didn't want mom to know. But that was it. I unburdened my conscience, dad didn't seem too bothered by it, and mom was none the wiser.
The next day I walked into my room to find mom kneeling by my dresser, patching the hole with plaster of paris.
What the fuck?!
I was shocked. Even though I knew dad would tell mom, I still couldn't believe he did.
Well, shit. Now I either have to be good the rest of my life, or live with a guilty conscience every time I do something stupid.
Aw hell, I was raised Catholic. I can live with the guilt.
This particular day, I was really pissed off. I don't remember what it was about, but knowing me, it was something stupid. Most likely, I was sent to my room for doing something I shouldn't have. (Though, it was probably my sister or brothers that did it and I was just the scapegoat.)
I was sent to my room as punishment, and there I stewed. Damn, I was mad, and I had no outlet. I wasn't much of a screamer/yeller when I got mad. I paced the room like a Las Vegas white tiger waiting for that dumbass Roy to step just an inch closer.
Boiling point reached, I stopped by my dresser and kicked the wall in frustration. Only my foot didn't stop at the wall.
A nice 10-inch hole appeared around my foot. At the time I was not familiar with drywall and its weaknesses.
Shit, shit, shit. I am in deep shit.
I pushed my dresser over a few feet to cover the hole. Perfect. Can't see a thing.
After that, I forgot all about the hole and went on with my life.
Not really, but it would have been nice. No, my conscience ate at me night and day. It came to the point where I could no longer stand the nagging voice in the back of my head; I had to confess.
For some reason, I felt that I would be better off telling dad. Usually mom was considered the softie. I brought dad down to my bedroom, pushed the dresser out of the way, and showed him my handiwork.
"I kicked that hole in the wall."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I was mad. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell mom."
Again, I don't know why I didn't want mom to know. But that was it. I unburdened my conscience, dad didn't seem too bothered by it, and mom was none the wiser.
The next day I walked into my room to find mom kneeling by my dresser, patching the hole with plaster of paris.
What the fuck?!
I was shocked. Even though I knew dad would tell mom, I still couldn't believe he did.
Well, shit. Now I either have to be good the rest of my life, or live with a guilty conscience every time I do something stupid.
Aw hell, I was raised Catholic. I can live with the guilt.
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Comments:
stretch65 (April 1, 2008. 05:13pm)
Well, you see, as parents we love to see the reaction of our 'significant other' to news we've heard first regarding our children.