(gap: 2s) In the gentle town where I spent my childhood, the days were long and filled with the laughter of children and the scent of fresh bread from Mrs. Carter’s bakery. Our home was a modest one, nestled on a quiet street where everyone knew each other, and kindness was the order of the day. It was a world of innocence, but also of clear rules and lessons to be learned.
My mother was a lady of firm principles and gentle hands. She believed that children must be taught right from wrong, and that discipline, when given with love, was a most important lesson. Her apron always smelled of lavender and flour, and her footsteps on the wooden floor meant it was time to behave.
When I was a little older, and no longer a very small child, my mother decided that standing in the corner was not enough. She introduced a new method of discipline: her wooden spoon, which she called Mr. Smack. It was not a thing to be feared, but rather a reminder that actions have consequences.
Whenever I did something wrong, my mother would look at me with her steady eyes and say, “Fetch Mr. Smack from the pantry and come to the discipline cupboard.” My heart would beat quickly as I walked down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet.
The discipline cupboard was a small, tidy space at the back of her wardrobe, filled with the scent of cedar and lavender. I would stand there, holding the wooden spoon, my hands trembling a little, and wait for my mother to arrive.
My mother would enter, her face calm and kind, and she would sit upon the old wooden stool. She never shouted, nor did she hurry. There was a certain order to everything, and even though I was nervous, I knew I was safe and loved.
The rules were always clear. I was to wait quietly until she spoke. If I moved or spoke out of turn, she would add five or ten extra smacks, depending on the seriousness of my misbehaviour. I knew exactly what was expected of me.
She would pat her lap, and I would climb over, my cheeks burning with shame. She would let the silence settle, and then, in a gentle but firm voice, she would ask me to explain what I had done and why I thought I deserved to be punished. If my answer was not honest or thoughtful, she would increase the number of smacks.
(pause) There is one occasion I remember most clearly. I had broken my father’s favourite mug and, instead of telling the truth, I blamed my little brother. All day, I felt terribly guilty. When my mother discovered the truth, she looked at me with great disappointment, and her hands trembled slightly as she took Mr. Smack from me.
After I confessed, she asked me how many smacks I thought I deserved above the usual twenty. I thought carefully, and whispered, “Thirty, please, Mother.” She nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and began the punishment.
The first smack landed with a sharp sound, and I felt a sting across my skin. The wooden spoon was cool and smooth, but each of the thirty smacks left a warm ache that reminded me of my wrongdoing. The scent of cedar and lavender filled the air, and I tried to be brave, though tears ran down my cheeks. My mother counted each smack aloud, so I would know the lesson was fair and just: “One, two, three…” all the way to thirty.
The waiting was the hardest part. I listened to the sound of the spoon as it was raised and brought down, and I promised myself I would always tell the truth in future. My mother was never angry, only sad that I had not been honest. When the thirty smacks were finished, she set the spoon aside and let me stand in the corner to think about what I had done.
My legs trembled, and my bottom was sore, but I knew I had learned a valuable lesson. After a little while, my mother would come and place her hand gently on my shoulder. She would say, “You are forgiven, but remember to always be truthful.” I would nod, grateful for her love and her fairness.
(pause) Looking back, I see that these moments were not only about punishment, but about learning to be honest, responsible, and kind. In our little town, in our small house, I learned that even the hardest lessons could be softened by the warmth of family and the knowledge that, no matter what, I was always loved.
