It was the early 1970s, a time when most parents were anything but liberal, and discipline was expected—sometimes demanded—by society itself. My brother and I were caught nicking sweets from the corner shop. The shopkeeper, who knew our mum well, said this wasn’t the first time and warned her that next time, he’d have no choice but to call the police.
The instant Mum heard those words, her whole face changed. Her eyes narrowed, dark and blazing, her jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in her cheek. Her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and her nostrils flared with every sharp breath. She stood rigid, shoulders squared, her whole body radiating a cold, furious energy that seemed to fill the cramped shop.
Her hands balled into fists at her sides, knuckles white, and when she finally spoke, her voice was low and trembling with barely contained rage. Each word was clipped, icy, and cut through the air like a whip. “You two—outside. Now.” The shopkeeper fell silent, and even the usual street noise seemed to fade beneath the weight of her anger.
As she marched us out, her grip on our wrists was iron-tight, her steps quick and purposeful. She didn’t look at us, but the set of her jaw and the storm in her eyes said everything. The air around her crackled with tension, and I could feel the heat of her fury radiating through her hand. My brother and I exchanged a terrified glance, knowing we’d never seen her like this before.
Mum was livid. She dragged us home, her grip unyielding, her voice sharp with threats of “a proper hiding, just you wait.” Back then, nearly every parent we knew believed in “spare the rod, spoil the child.” We’d been punished before, but this time, the air felt different—heavy with her anger and the certainty of what was coming.
She sent us straight to our bedroom, telling us to wait until she’d calmed down. The minutes dragged on, thick with dread. I remember the muffled sounds of her moving about the house, the creak of the stairs, and then—her footsteps outside our door.
When she entered, she held her rubber-soled slipper in one hand. In the early seventies, that slipper was a household staple—a symbol of discipline, its sole thick, flexible, and unforgiving. No one questioned it; it was just how things were done.
My brother was called first. He shuffled forward, eyes wide, and was pulled over Mum’s knee. The room filled with the sharp, echoing cracks of her hand, then the distinct, hollow thwack of the slipper meeting flesh. Each smack seemed to ring out, bouncing off the walls, punctuated by my brother’s yelps and the sound of his feet drumming the floor.
I watched, heart pounding, cheeks burning with shame and fear. When Mum finished with him, she stood him in the corner, his face streaked with tears, and turned to me.
My turn. She pulled me over her knee, the familiar scent of her apron and the roughness of her skirt pressed against my face. The first spank stung, but the slipper was worse—a hot, biting pain that seemed to bloom and spread with every strike. I clenched my fists, trying not to cry, but the sting was relentless. The rubber sole made a distinct, almost hollow sound, and the heat built up until my backside felt ablaze.
I lost count of the spanks. Time stretched and blurred, my ears ringing with the rhythm of the slipper and my own muffled sobs. The shame was as sharp as the pain—knowing I’d disappointed her, knowing I deserved it, but wishing it would end.
At last, she stopped. My legs trembled as she stood me up next to my brother. We were both red-faced and sniffling, our bottoms throbbing. She sent us to bed without supper, and I lay face down, the sheets cool against my burning skin.
That night, the lesson lingered—etched in the ache and the memory of the slipper’s sting. In those days, it was just what parents did. We never stole from that shop again.
