I was playing at the park with some friends. Our mothers were seated on benches a few hundred yards away, where they could observe us but we were too far to call.
Late in the afternoon, a youngster approached and informed me that my mother desired my presence as it was time to depart. I responded that I would come in a moment, as I was thoroughly enjoying myself and did not wish to cease my play. Then I forgot and continued playing.
A while later, my mother arrived – and her brow was furrowed with displeasure. She grasped my wrist firmly and led me away, saying: “You know better than to ignore my call, young man! You shall receive a spanking when we return home!”
I was utterly astonished. I had not intended to be disobedient – it simply occurred. I attempted to protest, but my mother commanded me to remain silent.
All the way home she held my hand, as if to ensure I would not flee. Of course, I had no intention of running away from my mother at that age – where would I go?
I looked up at her imploringly, searching her face for any sign of leniency, any indication that the punishment she had declared would not be executed. But her expression was resolute and her pace brisk, each step bringing us closer to home and me closer to her lap.
When we arrived home, Mother pulled up a chair, sat down, and positioned me in front of her. She inquired if I had anything to say for myself before I received my spanking. Allowed to speak at last, I blurted out that I was sorry, that I did not mean it, that I forgot. She remained unmoved.
(short pause) With a calm but unwavering air, Mother took my small hand and gently but firmly guided me across her lap. I felt the roughness of her skirt beneath my cheek, and the anticipation made my heart thump wildly in my chest. She spoke not in anger, but with a grave sense of duty, reminding me that a child must heed his mother’s call, for it is not only a matter of obedience, but of safety and respect. (pause) Then, with her open hand, she delivered the first sharp smack to the seat of my shorts. The sound rang out in the quiet room, and I gasped, more from surprise than pain. But the smacks continued, each one measured and deliberate, stinging more than the last. I wriggled and kicked, my face hot with shame and my eyes brimming with tears, but Mother’s arm held me securely, ensuring I could not escape my just deserts. (pause) Her face, I glimpsed, was set and solemn, not cruel, but determined that the lesson would be learned. She paused only to remind me, in a voice both gentle and firm, that she loved me dearly, but that love sometimes required a firm hand. The spanking was not hurried, nor was it drawn out beyond necessity; each smack was a punctuation mark in a lesson I would not soon forget. My cries grew louder, my pleas more desperate, but Mother did not waver until she was satisfied that the message had been received.
By the time she had finished spanking my bottom, I was a very well chastened little boy, still bawling and rubbing the seat of my shorts to try to lessen the sting. Yet, as I sobbed, Mother gathered me into her arms, holding me close and whispering that she forgave me, and that all was well now. The pain faded, but the lesson—delivered with both firmness and love—remained.
