(gap: 1s) Growing up in a military family in the 1960s meant that discipline and order were woven into the very fabric of our daily lives. Our home was a patchwork of routines, the air always tinged with the faint scent of furniture polish and the distant hum of the base. My mother, ever practical and determined, would take me along on her monthly trips to the commissary—a ritual that felt both monumental and exhausting.
The drive itself was an event, an hour of winding roads and anticipation, the car filled with the soft static of AM radio and the rhythmic thump of tires on the highway. I remember watching the world blur by, fields and houses melting into one another, my mind wandering to games of hopscotch and the laughter of friends waiting back home. But the real ordeal began once we arrived.
My mother shopped with a patience that seemed endless, her eyes scanning every price tag, her fingers tracing the labels as if deciphering a secret code. I trailed behind her, my feet dragging, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The aisles felt endless, and my boredom grew heavy, settling in my chest like a stone. I would sigh, roll my eyes, and mutter under my breath, my childish impatience bubbling over.
On one particular trip, my frustration reached its peak. I remember tugging at her sleeve, urging her to hurry, my voice sharp and insistent. “Just pick one, Mom!” I snapped, not caring how my words landed. She shot me a look—a warning, but I was too wrapped up in my own irritation to heed it. The hours crawled by, and by the time we finally loaded the car and began the long drive home, the tension between us was thick and unspoken.
Back at home, the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting golden patterns on the living room carpet. The car was packed with bags, each one heavy with the weight of a month’s worth of meals. My mother and I lugged them inside, the silence between us growing heavier with each trip. I was desperate to escape, to shake off the day, so I announced that I was going to take the dog for a walk—a rare offer, since our dog had her own yard and hardly needed walking.
My mother’s response was immediate and firm. “No, you’re helping me with the groceries,” she said, her voice clipped. I felt a surge of resentment, the familiar ache of wanting freedom and feeling trapped. I whined, my words tumbling out in a rush: “You never let me do anything I want!” The words hung in the air, sharp and accusing. That was the final straw.
Her face hardened, her eyes steely with resolve. “Go to your room,” she ordered, her voice low and unwavering. “You’re getting a spanking.” The word hit me like a slap. I hadn’t been spanked in years, and I’d convinced myself I was too old for such punishments. My cheeks burned with a mix of anger and humiliation as I stomped to my room, slamming the door behind me.
Alone in my room, the familiar walls felt suddenly confining. I paced, my mind racing with indignation and fear. I considered barricading the door, refusing to come out, but I knew my mother had a key—and worse, I knew my father’s temper if I defied her. The minutes dragged by, each one stretching my anxiety tighter. I tried to rehearse apologies, bargaining with myself, hoping for a way out.
When the knock finally came, it was soft but insistent. My heart hammered in my chest as I fumbled with the lock, my hands trembling. I opened the door to find my mother standing there, her expression unreadable but resolute. I tried to plead, my voice small and shaky: “It’s not fair, Mom. All I did was ask to take the dog for a walk.” But she shook her head, her tone gentle but unyielding. “You know why you’re being punished. Over the bed, now.”
The room seemed to shrink as I shuffled to the bed, my legs weak and unsteady. The bedspread was rough beneath my fingers as I gripped the edge, my face pressed into the fabric. I could hear the faint ticking of the clock, the distant laughter of children playing outside, and my own ragged breathing. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and impossibly young.
My mother sat beside me, the mattress dipping under her weight. There was a pause—a moment suspended in time—before her hand landed on my bottom with a sharp, echoing smack. The sound filled the room, startling in its clarity. The sting was immediate, but it was the humiliation that truly burned. Tears pricked at my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, willing myself not to cry.
The spanking continued, each smack punctuated by her stern voice: “You will not speak to me that way. You will not act so rudely.” Her words cut deeper than the pain, each one a reminder of the boundaries I had crossed. I tried to hold back my sobs, but soon the tears came, hot and unstoppable, streaming down my cheeks. I felt stripped of all my bravado, reduced to a child desperate for forgiveness.
The room was filled with the sounds of my sniffling, the creak of the bed, and the steady rhythm of her hand. My thoughts spiraled—how had I let it come to this? I was supposed to be grown up, above such punishments. Shame washed over me, heavy and suffocating. I wished I could disappear, to sink into the bedspread and escape the weight of my own actions.
At last, she stopped. My bottom throbbed, and I was left hiccuping with tears, my face hot and blotchy. My mother stood, smoothing her dress, her eyes softening just a fraction. “You are to stay in your room for the rest of the day,” she said, her voice quieter now but still firm. She left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.
I lay there for a long time, my face buried in the bedspread, my body wracked with the aftershocks of crying. The room was silent except for my quiet sobs and the distant sounds of life continuing outside my window. I felt utterly humiliated, my pride shattered. The sting on my skin faded, but the lesson lingered, etched deep into my memory.
That day marked the end of an era—the last time I was ever spanked. But the memory remains vivid, as sharp as the sting itself. I remember the sounds, the feelings, the overwhelming shame. Yet, as the years have passed, I’ve come to see that moment not just as a punishment, but as a lesson in humility, respect, and the complicated love that shapes us as children. My mother’s discipline was never cruel, but it was unwavering—a reminder that boundaries, though painful, are sometimes necessary for us to grow.
