The only place I ever went for sleepovers as a child was to my best friend Hannah’s house, where her parents always welcomed me as if I were their own. Our families were close—so close, in fact, that our parents trusted each other completely, even to the point of sharing the responsibility of discipline if either of us stepped out of line. It was a different time, and that trust was a sign of how deeply our families were intertwined.
One summer day in 1975 stands out in my memory, bright and vivid as if it happened yesterday. My dad had managed to get tickets to a nearby safari park—a magical place where you could drive your own car through winding paths and see wild animals roaming free. Hannah’s parents had a party to attend, so my parents offered to look after her, and together, the four of us set off for a day of adventure.
The safari park was a world apart from our quiet neighborhood. As soon as we entered, the air was filled with the earthy scent of grass and the distant calls of animals. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the car with shifting patterns. We pressed our faces to the windows, wide-eyed with excitement. Lions lounged in the shade, their golden coats gleaming in the afternoon light. Zebras grazed in small herds, their stripes almost hypnotic as they moved together. Giraffes ambled gracefully, their long necks reaching for the highest leaves, while elephants splashed each other with water, their trumpeting calls echoing across the park. At one point, a cheeky monkey scampered up to our car and peered in, its tiny hands leaving smudges on the glass. The thrill of being so close to these magnificent creatures made our hearts race with wonder.
The day was filled with laughter and awe, and for the most part, Hannah and I were on our best behavior. We shared snacks, pointed out animals to each other, and even made up stories about what the animals might be saying. But as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, a sense of restlessness crept in. The magic of the day was giving way to tiredness, and the car ride home felt much longer than the journey there.
On the way back, Hannah and I started talking excitedly about what we wanted to do when we got home—maybe play a board game, or build a fort out of blankets. But my mother gently reminded us that it was getting late, and by the time we arrived, it would be nearly bedtime. The disappointment hit us hard. The thought of the day ending so soon was just too much for us to accept.
Frustration bubbled over, and before we knew it, both Hannah and I were in the midst of a full-blown tantrum. We pleaded, we pouted, and our voices grew louder with every protest. My parents tried to soothe us, their voices calm and patient, but we were too far gone to listen. Finally, my mother’s patience snapped. Her voice, usually so gentle, rang out sharply: “Enough! I have had quite enough of this behavior, girls. When we get home, you’re both getting a spanking, and then it’s straight to bed.”
The sudden firmness in her tone stopped us in our tracks. The car fell silent, the only sound the hum of the engine and the distant chirping of crickets as dusk settled outside. Guilt and dread washed over us. We tried to apologize, our voices small and shaky, hoping to change her mind. But my mother was resolute—her decision was final.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, the house felt unusually quiet. My mother sent Hannah and me upstairs to change into our pajamas. The familiar softness of my nightgown did little to comfort me. Soon, she joined us in the bedroom, her expression serious but not unkind. She sat us down and spoke to us about our behavior, her words firm but caring. She explained why our tantrum was unfair, not just to her and my dad, but to each other as well.
After her talk, she asked Hannah to stand in the corner while she addressed me first. I felt a lump in my throat as I realized how much I had disappointed her. The discipline that followed was swift and to the point—a reminder of boundaries, but never cruel. Tears welled up in my eyes, more from the sting of regret than anything else.
Then it was Hannah’s turn, and I stood quietly in the corner, listening to her soft sobs. We both felt the weight of the day’s events, our earlier excitement now replaced by a sense of remorse and understanding.
With the lesson learned, my mother tucked us into bed, her voice gentle once more. She kissed us goodnight, smoothing our hair and whispering that tomorrow was a new day. As I drifted off to sleep, the memories of lions and laughter mingled with the comfort of knowing I was loved, even when I made mistakes.
