When you let other people, especially underage ones, use your iBook, you have to let go of some amount of privacy and control.
Lydia parks herself daily in front of my screen, doing schoolwork, playing Scrabulous, and blogging. Once she hunted through folders and read the draft of an essay I was writing and had vaguely described to her. She wished she hadn’t. “It was disturbing,” she told me.
In iPhoto, I occasionally discover photographs I didn’t snap, like this one:
Who are these people, and what are they doing in my Tupperware container, on my kitchen counter? And who let them use the camera?
Grace! Or was it you, Eli?