Growing up in the early 1970s, spanking wasn’t as common as it had been in my parents’ day, but it still happened from time to time. On those rare occasions, my mother would grab my arm and give me one or two gentle swats on the seat of my corduroy shorts. It wasn’t really painful, but I’d cry a lot—mostly because I hated seeing my mother so upset with me.
One afternoon, after playing outside in our backyard—where the air was filled with the sound of distant lawnmowers and the scent of fresh-cut grass—I came back inside. My mother, in her polyester dress and with her hair perfectly set, called me over. She fixed me with a stern look and asked if I’d been playing with the iron gate at the end of our garden.
I was nervous. I’d been climbing that gate, not realizing it was off-limits. In those days, kids roamed more freely, but there were still rules. She seemed furious—or at least, that’s how it felt to me—and I was getting scared. “No,” I said, hesitantly. It was a foolish lie.
Of course, she wouldn’t have asked such a specific question if she didn’t already know the answer. She frowned and started scolding me, but I barely heard her. I wished I could disappear. I’d lied to my mother, and she’d caught me. I felt like a criminal, even though it was just a small thing.
When the scolding ended, she took my hand and led me to my room—past the posters of astronauts and the Beatles on my wall. With my free hand, I tried to shield my bottom, bracing for the swats I expected, but they didn’t come right away.
She sat on my bed, the orange and brown bedspread so typical of the era, and pulled me close. “Peter,” she said, “I’m not angry about the gate, but because you lied to me.” Then, she put me over her lap and began to spank me with her hand.
(short pause) The anticipation was almost worse than the spanking itself. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared down at the swirling patterns of the bedspread, my face hot with shame and fear. I could feel the rough texture of my corduroy shorts pressing against my skin, and the cool air of the room prickled at the back of my neck. My mother’s arm was firm around my waist, holding me in place, and I could hear the faint ticking of the clock on my dresser, each second stretching out endlessly.
(pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing sound—more startling than painful at first. But as her hand rose and fell, the sting built with each swat, radiating through the thin fabric and blooming into a hot ache. I gasped, then yelped, the sound of my own voice muffled by the bedspread. The room seemed to shrink around me, the bold wallpaper and the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen fading into the background. All I could focus on was the rhythm of the spanking: the brief pause, the rush of air, the sudden, stinging contact. My legs kicked reflexively, my hands gripping the edge of the bed, desperate for something to hold onto.
(pause) Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I sobbed, the sound raw and unrestrained, my body writhing in a futile attempt to escape the next smack. My mother’s voice was steady but sad as she reminded me, between swats, why I was being punished. The words barely registered through the haze of embarrassment and pain. I felt exposed, small, and helpless—my world reduced to the sensation of her hand and the overwhelming urge for it to stop.
(pause) I lost count after the first few, but each smack seemed to echo in my memory, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls and mingling with my cries. The smell of her lavender perfume drifted down, oddly comforting even as I squirmed and bawled. My cheeks were wet with tears, my nose running, my breath coming in hiccuping gasps. I remember the scratchy feel of the bedspread against my face, the warmth of my mother’s lap, and the dull, throbbing heat that spread across my bottom.
(pause) When it was finally over, I lay limp and exhausted, my sobs fading to quiet sniffles. My mother gathered me in her arms and held me until I stopped crying. Then she kissed me, told me she loved me, and reminded me that I should always tell her the truth—words that stuck with me, even as the world around us changed with the times.
The memory of that day is etched in my mind, not just because of the spanking, but because of the lesson it carried. The house, with its bold geometric wallpaper and avocado green rotary phone, seemed to hold its breath as my mother and I navigated that moment. The scent of her perfume, a mix of lavender and something uniquely her, lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dinner cooking in the kitchen.
My mother’s stern expression softened as she held me, her eyes reflecting a mix of disappointment and love. It was in those moments of discipline that I felt the depth of her care. She wasn’t just punishing me; she was teaching me, guiding me to be a better person. The spanking was a physical manifestation of her love, a way to ensure I understood the importance of honesty.
As I grew older, the lessons from that day stayed with me. The world around us changed—technology advanced, fashion evolved, and societal norms shifted—but the core values my mother instilled in me remained constant. The memory of her voice, firm yet loving, echoed in my mind whenever I faced a moral dilemma.
Looking back, I realize that those moments of discipline were not just about correcting behavior but about building character. My mother’s unwavering commitment to raising me with integrity shaped the person I became. The faded color footage of our 1970s living room, the hopscotch games on the pavement, and the stern yet loving figure of my mother are all part of a tapestry of memories that define my childhood.
In the end, it wasn’t the spanking that left a lasting impact, but the love and care behind it. My mother’s actions, though firm, were always rooted in a desire to see me grow into a person of honesty and integrity. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
