(gap: 2s) My childhood unfolded in the gentle embrace of a small town in the 1960s, where the sun always seemed to shine upon the fields and the air was filled with the merry laughter of children. Our home, a neat little house with a white picket fence and a garden brimming with daisies, bustled with the energy of five lively girls. My father, tall and straight-backed in his crisp military uniform, was often away, and my mother, young and kind-hearted, kept our household running with a firm but loving hand.
(short pause) In those days, the world was changing, and new ideas about raising children were everywhere. But in our family, my parents believed in the old ways—especially when it came to discipline. If one of us girls misbehaved, a good, sound spanking was considered the surest way to teach right from wrong. It was never done in anger, but always with a sense of duty and care, as if each lesson was a stepping stone to becoming a better person.
(pause) My very first memory of a spanking from my mother is as clear as if it happened yesterday. I was about three years old, and my twin baby sisters had just arrived, their tiny cries filling the house with a new kind of music. I remember the nursery, with its soft blue walls and the sweet scent of talcum powder, and the way my mother, looking tired but proud, gently tucked the twins into their cribs for a nap.
(short pause) “Now, girls,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, “the babies need their rest. No one is to go into the nursery until they wake up.” She closed the door softly, and for a moment, the house was filled with a hush, as if even the walls were listening.
(pause) But forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, and my sister Mary and I soon found ourselves in the den, watching the flickering black-and-white television. Mary was playing with her favourite doll, a raggedy thing with button eyes and a crooked smile. I, feeling a little jealous, snatched the doll from her hands. Mary’s eyes flashed, and she let out a wail that seemed to shake the very windows.
(short pause) Mother appeared in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Girls, if you make too much noise, I shall have to give you a slapping,” she warned, her tone serious but not unkind. A slapping was not as dreadful as a full spanking, but to a little girl who had only ever known a tap on the hand, it sounded terribly ominous.
(pause) Mary, never one to back down, hissed at me in a fierce whisper, “I don’t care that you took my dolly! I’ll just go and get yours, and I won’t give it back, ever!” She stomped off, her little fists clenched, determined to make good on her threat.
(short pause) My heart thudded in my chest. I knew my precious doll was not in my room, but in the forbidden nursery. Without thinking, I dashed after Mary, my feet pounding on the wooden floor. “You can’t have my dolly!” I cried, bursting into the nursery just as Mary reached for the crib.
(pause) The twins woke with a start, their cries rising in a chorus of wails. Mother hurried in, her face a picture of disappointment. “Trisha, you know you were not to come in here,” she said, her voice quiet but full of meaning. She sent me to her bedroom to wait, while she soothed the babies back to sleep. Mary, quick as a flash, disappeared before she could be caught.
(short pause) Alone in my mother’s room, I felt a heavy lump in my throat. The room was filled with the scent of lavender. I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs swinging nervously, wondering what would happen next. I could hear my mother’s gentle murmurs as she calmed the twins, and the sound made me feel both guilty and afraid.
(pause) Soon, Mother entered, her face calm but resolute. She sat beside me and took my small hands in hers. “Trisha, you disobeyed me and woke the babies. You also fought with your sister after I warned you. I’m afraid you must have a spanking, so you remember to listen next time.”
(short pause) My heart fluttered like a trapped bird. I had seen my older sisters get spankings before—their red faces and tearful sobs were enough to make me shiver. Now it was my turn, and I felt as if the whole world had gone quiet, waiting to see what I would do.
(pause) Mother stood and pulled out her vanity chair, the legs scraping softly on the floor. She lifted me gently from the bed and stood me before her, her hands warm and steady. In our family, spankings were always given on the bottom, so the lesson would not be forgotten.
(short pause) She placed me over her knees, my dress bunched up around my waist, and I stared at the carpet, my cheeks burning with shame and fear. Then, with a firm but loving hand, she began the spanking. “Didn’t I (smack) warn you about (smack) waking up your sisters and (smack) fighting with Mary?” Each word was punctuated by a gentle but stinging smack, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes.
(pause) Mother delivered six crisp smacks, each one landing squarely on my bottom. The sound echoed in the quiet room: smack, smack, smack, smack, smack, smack! With each smack, my resolve crumbled a little more, and soon I was sobbing, my tears falling onto the soft rug below. My legs kicked helplessly, and I clutched at the edge of her skirt, but Mother held me firmly, making sure the lesson was learned.
(short pause) “You have been a (smack) naughty girl, and you are going to remember this spanking! (smack)” Mother’s voice was gentle, but her hand was determined. The final two smacks stung the most, and I let out a wail, my cheeks wet with tears. My bottom felt hot and sore, and I promised myself I would never disobey again.
(pause) At last, she stopped and lifted me up, her eyes kind but serious. “Will you do that again, Trisha?” she asked. Through my sobs, I blurted out, “It was all Mary’s fault!” But Mother shook her head, and before I knew it, I was back over her knees for three more sharp smacks—smack, smack, smack! By the end, my bottom was truly sore and my heart was full of regret, but I knew I had learned a lesson I would not soon forget.
(short pause) Mother sent me to the room I shared with Mary and Kelly, my other older sister, to stand in the corner and think about what I had done. The wallpaper was covered in tiny blue flowers, and I pressed my forehead against it, sniffling quietly. My bottom tingled, and I could not help but rub it gently, hoping the sting would soon fade.
(pause) Soon, I heard Mother in the living room, her footsteps brisk as she found Mary and gave her a spanking too—ten firm whacks for her part in the mischief. From behind the door, I could hear Mary’s cries and the sound of each smack, clear and unmistakable. When Mary finally joined me in the corner, her face was red and her eyes watery, and she rubbed her sore bottom just as I did. We stood together in silence, both a little wiser, and a little closer, for the lesson we had learned that day.
(short pause) In our family, a spanking was never given in anger, but always with love and a desire to teach. Though the sting faded, the lesson remained: to listen, to be kind, and to remember that actions have consequences. And so, in the gentle light of that small town, we grew up, learning right from wrong, and always knowing that we were dearly loved.
