There are moments in life when a person discovers their generosity has outrun their intelligence, and I recently experienced one of them because of a perfectly innocent journaling book. A friend of mine decided that her career as a corporate clothing buyer wasn’t a good use of her education, so she switched to teaching.

I thought this was admirable. Teaching is one of those professions where society praises endlessly while quietly making sure the teacher has neither sufficient time nor sufficient money to enjoy the praise.

So, when she received her teaching certificate, I decided to contribute something useful to her new career. I bought her a journaling book.

It is a handsome little volume, leather-bound for posterity, with plenty of blank pages on which to preserve the wisdom, absurdity, and accidental philosophy that children produce in unlimited quantities. I have always believed that a teacher ought to keep such records.

Children say things adults spend entire lifetimes trying to think of, usually while sitting in a bathtub or drinking something expensive. I wrote in the congratulations card that she could use the journal to write down all the funny things her students said.

I considered this an excellent idea. It was thoughtful, practical, and involved almost no personal effort on my part, which is generally the standard by which I measure successful gift-giving.

She thanked me and said it was a wonderful idea. Then she explained that her class is special education, and all of her students are non-verbal.

Now, there are occasions when the human mind, having confidently marched toward a conclusion, discovers that the bridge has been removed. Mine stopped somewhere over the canyon.

I looked at the journal in my imagination and saw its future: page after page of immaculate silence, broken perhaps by an occasional crayon mark, a fingerprint, or the sort of mysterious stain which appears on school property and is best left unidentified. I suppose I had envisioned her sitting down after a long day and writing, “Today, little Billy said the most astonishing thing about the principal.” Instead, she may be recording, “Today, Billy looked at the principal for eleven seconds, which appeared significant.”

While it may not be the most embarrassing moment of my life, it definitely out-cringes most of the things I’ve ever said or done. Her parents raise her well, though, as she told me, “It’s the thought that counts.”