I was born in the late 1970s, a time when the world seemed painted in muted hues and the air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and sea salt. Spanking was already slipping out of fashion, but in our home, tradition lingered like the persistent Scottish drizzle. I was spanked by my parents, and, on rare occasions, by teachers in the chilly, echoing halls of kindergarten through to fourth grade. (short pause) The world outside was rough and honest, and so, too, was the discipline within our four walls.
Let me tell you about my very first spanking—a story I do not remember myself, but one that has been retold so many times it feels stitched into the fabric of my memory. It is a tale that has grown in the telling, embroidered with the laughter and sighs of family gatherings, and always ending with a knowing look from my mother.
I was a small, curious child, forever seeking colour in a world of greys and browns. One afternoon, I sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, my tongue poking from the corner of my mouth as I filled my colouring book with wild, clashing rainbows. But soon, the pages felt too small, too confining for my imagination. The blank wall above my bed beckoned—a vast, inviting canvas. With a childish sense of purpose, I pressed my crayon to the wallpaper and began to draw a glorious arc of colour, dreaming of magic and adventure.
The flat was warm and close, the electric fire humming in the grate, the faint aroma of stewing mince drifting from the kitchen. My mother’s voice, brisk and melodic, called me to dinner. I scampered out, hands smeared with waxy reds and blues. She caught sight of my fingers and, with a gentle but firm grip, led me to the sink. The water was cold, the soap sharp and floral, and she scrubbed my hands with the same thoroughness she used on the Sunday wash. I remember the comfort of her touch, even as she chided me for my mess.
After dinner, the evening unfolded in its usual ritual—bath time, the splash and echo of water in the tub, the soft towel wrapped around me, the scent of lavender soap clinging to my skin. My mother’s arms were strong and sure as she carried me to my room, her footsteps muffled on the worn linoleum.
But when we entered, the mood shifted. There, above my bed, my masterpiece blazed in all its childish glory. My mother’s face changed—her jaw set, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and her eyes flashed with a storm of disappointment and disbelief. The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with tension. Her voice, usually warm and lilting, rang out sharp and clear, echoing off the patterned wallpaper. She scolded me, her words crisp and clipped, telling me I was a very naughty girl. I felt the sting of her disappointment more keenly than any threat of punishment. (pause)
With a measured, almost ceremonial motion, she sat on the edge of my bed. She pulled me gently but unyieldingly over her knee, the towel slipping away to leave my skin bare and vulnerable. I remember the roughness of her skirt against my legs, the faint scent of soap and bathwater lingering in the air, and the way my heart hammered in my chest. My cheeks burned with a mixture of shame, fear, and confusion. (short pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing clap—a sound that seemed to fill the small room. I gasped, the sting blooming across my skin, hot and prickling. She delivered five crisp smacks, each one punctuated by a stern word, her hand steady and resolute but never cruel. The pain was real, but it was the rhythm of her voice, the certainty of her actions, that left the deepest mark. Tears welled up and spilled down my face, my sobs muffled by the bedding. The world shrank to the circle of her arms and the steady, measured rhythm of her hand. (pause)
After the spanking, Mother assured me that she still loved me – but also warned me that from now on, when I misbehaved I would get spanked.
