As a child growing up in the 70s, discipline was a part of life as familiar as the salty breeze that drifted through our small beach town. My mother and my baby-sitters didn’t hesitate to spank me when I crossed the line, and the memory of those moments is as vivid as the scent of sunscreen and seaweed that clung to my skin after a day on the sand.
Our town was a sleepy place, nestled between rolling dunes and the endless blue of the ocean. The streets were lined with weathered cottages, their paint faded by the sun, and the air always seemed to hum with the distant sound of waves crashing and gulls calling overhead. My mother stood out in this quiet world—a striking woman, tall and elegant, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair always pulled back in a severe bun. She moved with a kind of quiet authority, her back straight, her eyes unwavering, but there was a gentle warmth in her gaze that softened even her sternest moments. She was fair, but she was firm, and everyone in town seemed to respect her for it.
I remember one particular day with a clarity that still makes my stomach twist. I had gotten my hands on a pack of firecrackers—contraband for a kid my age—and was down on the beach, the sand hot beneath my bare feet, the sun beating down on my back. The thrill of danger made my heart race as I crouched behind a dune, fumbling with the matches. Suddenly, I felt a shadow fall over me. I looked up to see my mother, her silhouette framed by the blinding sun, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she took my hand in her strong, cool grip. The walk back to our house felt endless, my heart pounding in my chest, dread pooling in my stomach with every step. The familiar creak of our front gate, the scent of her rose-scented hand lotion, the click of her shoes on the wooden floor—all of it is burned into my memory.
Normally, when I misbehaved, there was a ritual to it. My mother would settle herself in her favorite armchair by the window, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the room. She would sit with her back impossibly straight, her face calm but serious, and call me over. There was a strange comfort in the routine: the gentle but unyielding way she would guide me over her knee, making sure I was secure, her hand resting on my back. The anticipation was always the worst part—my heart would thud in my chest, my breath coming in shallow bursts as I waited for the first smack. When it came, it was sharp and stinging, a jolt that made me gasp. She would deliver six to eight firm smacks, each one measured and deliberate, never rushed, never cruel. Her voice was steady, never raised, but her message was unmistakable. By the last smack, my eyes would be swimming with tears, my pride stinging more than my skin. Afterward, she would help me up, her expression softening, and she would kneel down to my level, explaining in gentle but serious tones why I had been punished. The emotional ache lingered—a mix of embarrassment, regret, and a strange, aching comfort in knowing she cared enough to correct me.
But there were days when I pushed too far, when my stubbornness or recklessness left her no choice but to reach for the slipper. Those days were rare, but unforgettable. Today was one of those days.
As we entered the house, the air inside felt cooler, almost heavy with anticipation. My mother’s grip on my hand was firm but not cruel, her stride purposeful as she led me down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath my feet, the faint scent of soap and powder lingering in the air. I was already crying, my cheeks hot and wet, as she gave me a pre-spanking scolding. Her voice was steady, not unkind, but there was a gravity to her words that made my chest tighten. She sat down on the closed toilet lid, her skirt rustling, and pulled me gently but firmly over her knee. Her movements were practiced, almost ritualistic, and I could feel the strength in her arms as she held me in place.
The hand spanking came first. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing sound, the sting blooming across my skin. After six smacks, I was sobbing, my pleas tumbling out between gasps for breath. The pain was real, but it was the shame and the knowledge that I had disappointed her that hurt the most. By the twelfth smack, my cries had become desperate, my body shaking with each sob. She finally pulled me up, her face softening as she looked at me, her eyes shining with a mix of sadness and resolve.
But I could see from the set of her jaw that it wasn’t over. My heart hammered in my chest as she stood up and crossed the small bathroom to the cabinet. I watched through a blur of tears as she opened the door and reached up to the top shelf, her movements slow and deliberate. She pulled down her old house slipper—a faded blue thing, the fabric worn thin and the sole smooth from years of use. In that moment, it looked enormous, almost monstrous, and my fear spiked. The anticipation was excruciating; my stomach twisted, my breath caught in my throat as she turned back to me, slipper in hand, her expression unreadable.
She sat back down, her eyes meeting mine, and patted her lap. I hesitated, my legs trembling, but she guided me gently back over her knee. The coolness of the slipper’s sole pressed against my skin for a brief, chilling moment, and then—crack!—the first smack landed. The sound was sharper, louder than her hand, echoing off the tiled walls and making me flinch. The sting was immediate and searing, a hot, biting pain that made me gasp and kick. Each smack with the slipper burned deeper, the sensation building with every strike until my bottom felt aflame. I kicked and sobbed, the tears coming faster now, my voice hoarse with pleading. The slipper was relentless—each smack heavier, more serious, a clear sign that I had truly crossed a line. By the end, my cries had turned to hiccupping sobs, my face buried in my arms, my body limp with exhaustion.
The difference between her hand and the slipper was stark and unforgettable. Her hand was firm but forgiving, a warning and a lesson. The slipper was final, a boundary not to be tested again. When she finished, she set the slipper aside and pulled me up into her arms, wrapping me in a gentle hug. Her voice was soft, almost trembling, as she explained why things had gone so far this time. The emotional weight of the slipper spanking stayed with me long after the pain faded—a heavy mix of shame, relief, and a deep, aching understanding that some boundaries were not meant to be crossed.
Needless to say, I didn’t go near fireworks for a long, long time. Even now, the sound of a firecracker popping on the beach brings back the memory—the sting, the lesson, and the love that held it all together.
