I grew up in the late 1960s, a time when the world felt both bigger and smaller—when the rules of childhood were as clear as the sound of the church bell on Sunday mornings. Back then, spanking was not just common, it was expected, a rite of passage in many families. I was the youngest of three, with a brother and sister who seemed so much older and wiser, always just out of reach. My father, a tall, stern man with a deep voice and a presence that filled the room, was the one who usually handled discipline. His footsteps in the hallway could silence any mischief.
(short pause) One weekend, everything changed. My father had to leave on a business trip, and the house felt emptier without his steady presence. Saturday afternoon arrived, heavy with boredom. My brother and sister had vanished with their friends, their laughter echoing faintly as the door slammed behind them. I was too young to join, left behind in a world that suddenly felt too quiet and too big. Frustration bubbled up inside me, but it faded quickly, replaced by a restless energy. I wandered outside, drawn by the sound of my mother working in the garden.
(pause) My mother was a force of nature—no-nonsense, practical, and always in motion. She wore a plain, faded dress, the kind that had seen countless summers, with a sturdy apron tied tightly around her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a strand out of place. There was a quiet strength in the way she moved, her hands rough from years of work, her eyes sharp and watchful. She didn’t waste words, but when she spoke, you listened. She was the anchor of our family, steady and unyielding.
(short pause) I wanted to help her, to feel useful, so I knelt beside her in the dirt. But my small hands were clumsy, and I kept spilling soil everywhere, making more of a mess than anything else. My mother’s patience wore thin. She looked at me, her voice firm but not unkind, and warned, “Knock it off or you’re gonna get it.” I knew that tone—it meant business. But I was stubborn, and the temptation to play with the cool, dark earth was too strong. Eventually, she stood up, brushed the dirt from her hands, and gave me a quick smack on the backside. It was more of a warning than anything, a gentle reminder. It didn’t hurt, and I could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even as she tried to look stern.
(pause) I decided to try something new, eager to prove myself. My mother dug holes with practiced ease, and I carefully placed the flowers in, their roots dangling like tiny threads. For a moment, everything went smoothly. The sun was warm on my back, and I felt a quiet pride in helping. But then, disaster struck—I fumbled, and one of the delicate flowers snapped in half. My heart sank. My mother glanced over, her face unreadable. She wasn’t angry, but I was furious with myself. Without thinking, I threw the broken plant to the ground and, in a burst of frustration, let out a swear word I’d heard my siblings use.
(dramatic pause) The world seemed to stop. My mother’s eyes flashed with shock and anger. In one swift motion, she grabbed my arm and marched me inside, her grip unyielding. The bathroom was cold and smelled faintly of soap and bleach. She didn’t say a word as she reached for the bar of soap, her movements precise and deliberate. The taste was bitter and sharp, filling my mouth with shame and regret. Tears stung my eyes, but I bit them back, too proud to cry.
(pause) As if that wasn’t enough, my mother decided it was bath time—a punishment in itself for a child who wanted nothing more than to run free outside. I protested, my voice rising in desperation, but she was unmoved. She undressed me with efficient hands, washed me thoroughly, and wrapped me in a towel that smelled of sunshine and laundry soap. She dressed me in my pajamas, her face set in a mask of determination, and led me to my room.
(pause) The room was dim, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor. My heart pounded as she sat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her jaw set. She reached out, her hands gentle but firm, and pulled me over her knee. The world seemed to shrink to the small space between her lap and the floor. I could feel the rough fabric of her dress against my cheek, the steady rise and fall of her breath. My own breath caught in my throat, a mix of fear, embarrassment, and a strange sense of anticipation.
(pause) She raised her hand, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. The first smack landed with a sharp sound, the sting blooming across my skin. I gasped, more from surprise than pain. The next came quickly, then another, each one punctuated by the soft rustle of her dress and the quiet, determined rhythm of her movements. Six in all—each one deliberate, not cruel, but meant to be remembered. The pain was real, but it was the humiliation that burned deeper. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent. My mother’s hand was steady, her resolve unwavering, but I could sense the heaviness in her heart, the weight of what she felt she had to do.
(pause) When it was over, she didn’t let go right away. She kept me there, her hand resting on my back, her breathing slowing. The room was quiet except for my sniffles and the distant hum of a lawnmower outside. She finally lifted me up, her eyes searching mine for understanding. There was no anger left in her face—only a tired sadness, and something like love. She smoothed my hair, wiped my tears with her thumb, and told me softly, “I hope you understand why I had to do that.” I nodded, unable to speak, my cheeks burning with shame and the sting of discipline.
(pause) The aftermath lingered. My bottom throbbed, a dull ache that reminded me with every movement of what had just happened. I sat gingerly on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees to my chest, feeling small and exposed. The room felt different now—quieter, heavier, as if the air itself was thick with the memory of what had passed. I heard my mother moving down the hallway, her footsteps slower, softer than before. I wanted to be angry, but mostly I felt empty, drained by the storm of emotions that had swept through me.
(short pause) When it was over, she looked me in the eye and asked, her voice softer now, “Where did you hear that word?” I hesitated, then told her the truth—it was my brother and sister. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew they were in for it too. Sure enough, later that evening, I heard the unmistakable sound of the paddle and their muffled protests. I was sore, both in body and spirit, and surprised by the strength my mother possessed. I had never known she could be so strict, so unyielding.
(long pause) That night, as the house settled into silence, my mother came to my room. She leaned down to kiss me goodnight, her face softer in the dim light. But her eyes narrowed when she saw the mess I’d left—clothes on the floor, toys scattered everywhere. Without a word, she pulled me up, and once again, I found myself over her knee. Six more smacks, each one a reminder that in our house, rules were rules, and love was sometimes tough. As I lay in bed, sore and humbled, I realized that my mother’s discipline was just another way she showed she cared—a lesson I would carry with me long after the sting had faded.
