The summer of my childhood seemed endless, golden, and mischievous—a time when the days stretched out like warm taffy and the air was thick with the scent of cut grass and sun-warmed earth. But beneath the laughter and the games, there was always the unspoken knowledge that mischief had its price, and that price was often paid in the quiet, shadowed corners of our home, under the stern gaze of my mother.
(short pause) When I was a naughty boy, I would usually be sent to fetch Mother’s slipper from her shoe cupboard—unless, of course, she was already wearing it, the soft slap of its sole echoing ominously on the linoleum as she walked. The ritual was always the same: Mother seated in her favorite high-backed chair, sunlight streaming through the lace curtains, dust motes swirling in the golden beams. My heart would pound in my chest, a wild, fluttering bird, as I approached her, slipper in hand, knowing what was to come.
(pause) If my mischief was minor—a broken vase, a muddy footprint on the carpet—I might escape with a stern lecture or a few sharp words. But if I had truly blotted my copybook, as Mother liked to say—told a lie, or been caught in some act of defiance—I would be sent upstairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath my feet, to wait outside her bedroom. The anticipation was its own punishment, a slow, creeping dread that settled in my stomach like a stone. I would stand there, shifting from foot to foot, the wallpaper’s faded roses blurring through my tears, already well aware of how much it was going to hurt from past experience.
(pause) By the time I heard Mother rise from her chair, the sound of her footsteps deliberate and unhurried, my eyes would be brimming with tears. The person who gave birth to you, who was supposed to be your main carer, was about to come and deliver a lesson in pain—a lesson I would not soon forget. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of lavender and starch, as she approached, slipper in hand, her face set in a mask of stern resolve.
(short pause) Of course, Mother didn’t think of smacking—or a ‘slippered bottom’, as she invariably called it—in the same way I did. To her, it was a necessary part of raising a child, a duty she performed with a kind of grim determination. When she had collected her weapon, Mother would sweep past me, her skirt rustling, and enter her bedroom. Shortly afterwards, she would call me in, her voice calm but unyielding. I would step inside, trembling, the familiar room suddenly strange and forbidding, shadows pooling in the corners.
(pause) I would find her seated on the edge of my parents’ double bed, the patchwork quilt neatly folded, her hands folded in her lap. Without further ado, I would drape myself across her ample lap, the fabric of her dress cool against my cheek. Mother would then talk to me, her voice low and measured, about the reason I was there and what was about to happen. Her words were always the same, but they cut deeper than any slap: disappointment, hope for better, the need to learn from my mistakes.
(short pause) By this point, I would usually already be crying, though I dared not make too much of a fuss. If I sobbed too loudly, she would simply tell me to be quiet, reminding me that I would soon have ‘something to cry about’. I would promise to be good, my voice trembling, but it never helped. “All naughty boys promise to be good when they are over Mummy’s knee getting a good spanking,” she would remark, her tone almost weary. “It’s Mummy’s job to carry on warming his bottom until he’s learned his lesson.” The words stung almost as much as the slipper.
(pause) Sometimes, she would begin with her hand, the sharp sting of her palm a prelude to what was to come. The sound echoed in the small room, each smack punctuated by my muffled cries. As I grew older, and my misdeeds became more serious, she would go straight to the slipper—a rubber-soled terror that seemed to grow heavier with each passing year. The first few whacks were always the worst, the shock of pain blooming across my skin, but it was the relentless rhythm, the building heat, that truly broke me.
(pause) Mother had a very precise way of going about things. First, each bottom cheek would be given around half a dozen good whacks, one after the other, the blows landing with a dull, rhythmic thud. Then she would begin slippering alternate cheeks, the occasional telling blow landing squarely across my bottom crack, which really hurt, especially if it was a low one. The pain was sharp, electric, radiating outward in waves that left me gasping.
(short pause) That rubber-soled slipper was deceptively simple, but it made a thorough job of her son’s bottom. For those who’ve never had it, let me tell you: the slipper can feel almost harmless at first, a mere tap. But as the minutes dragged on, the sting grew sharper, the heat more intense, until it felt as though my skin was on fire. Each new smack sent a fresh jolt of pain through me, and the urge to squirm, to beg for mercy, became overwhelming.
(pause) It never failed to make me cry, which, of course, was the idea. By the time Mother decided to switch her attention to the tops of my thighs, I would be roaring the house down, my sobs echoing off the walls. Sometimes, the old lady in the adjoining semi would bang on the dividing wall, her cane thumping in protest—not out of concern for my welfare, I suspected, but simply to complain about the noise. The humiliation was almost as bad as the pain, my pride stinging as much as my backside.
(pause) When it was finally over, my bottom would be as red as a postbox, throbbing with every heartbeat. I would usually be made to stand facing the wall, slippered bottom on display, hands on my head—a silent warning to any would-be mischief-makers. If we were in Mother’s bedroom, it was a private shame, but if I’d been spanked downstairs, there was always the anxiety that someone might see me through the window, or worse, that a surprise visitor would catch a glimpse of my chastised state. On other occasions, I was sent straight to bed, the cool sheets a small comfort as I lay on my tummy, tears soaking the pillow, the lesson burning in more ways than one.
(long pause) Looking back now, I can almost smell the polish on the floorboards, feel the roughness of the wallpaper beneath my fingertips as I stood in the hallway, waiting for judgment. I remember the ache of regret, the sting of shame, and the slow, dawning realisation that every act of mischief carried its own weight, its own consequence. Those summers were not just about scraped knees and secret adventures, but about learning the boundaries of right and wrong, the meaning of remorse, and the enduring, complicated love between a mother and her child.
(dramatic pause) In the end, the lessons I learned that mischievous summer were not just about obedience or fear, but about understanding, forgiveness, and the bittersweet process of growing up. The pain faded, but the memories lingered, shaping the person I would become—one lesson, one slippered bottom at a time.
