A Punctuation Mark in the Story of my Growing Up

(gap: 2s) Once upon a time, in the gentle days of the 1950s, when the world was bright with seaside laughter , children learned their lessons in ways both memorable and kind. In those days, a soundly smacked bottom—delivered with love—was as much a part of growing up as sandy shoes or the taste of pink rock from the promenade.

(short pause) My own dear mother, always neat in her cardigan and sensible shoes, believed that a child must be taught right from wrong. Her hands, strong and gentle, could pour the sweetest tea or, when needed, teach a lesson that would be remembered long after the tears had dried.

(pause) If ever I was especially naughty—perhaps by leaving sandy footprints through the guesthouse, or quarrelling with my sister over the last boiled sweet—Mother’s voice would ring out, calm and certain: “Upstairs, young man. Into your pyjamas, and prepare yourself for a proper spanking.” There was no use in pleading, for in our home, Mother’s word was as steady as the tide.

(short pause) The climb up the narrow staircase seemed to last forever, each step echoing with the weight of my mischief. My little bedroom, with its faded floral wallpaper and battered teddy bear, became a place of waiting and wondering. I would perch on the edge of my bed, heart thumping, listening for the measured tread of Mother’s feet on the linoleum. The air was thick with lavender and the distant laughter of children still at play.

(pause) When Mother entered, she would draw out the straight-backed chair, the one reserved for such important moments. My clean clothes for the next day would be folded neatly on its seat, a quiet promise that all would be well again soon. Mother would sit, her face kind but firm, and beckon me to her side.

(short pause) “Do you know why you are here?” she would ask, her voice gentle but unwavering. I would nod, cheeks burning with shame, and she would explain, in careful words, the naughty deed that had brought me to this moment. Then, with a steady hand, she would guide me across her lap, just as any loving mother would.

(pause) The spanking itself was brisk and thorough, as was the way in those days. Mother’s hand, warm and sure, would land with a sound that seemed to fill the little room. Each smack was a reminder—a punctuation mark in the story of my growing up. I would kick and cry, feeling the sting and the sorrow of my actions, but Mother never faltered. She made certain that every inch of my bottom and the tops of my thighs received their due, so that the lesson would be learned in both heart and mind.

(short pause) Afterwards, my sobs would fill the room, mingling with the distant call of seagulls and the gentle tick of the guesthouse clock. Mother would gather me up, her arms suddenly soft and comforting, and tuck me into bed. She would press a kiss to my forehead, her forgiveness as warm as the sun on the promenade, and whisper, “Mummy will call you down for tea soon—now, be a good boy.”

(pause) As I lay there, the sting slowly fading, I would think about what I had done and the lesson I had learned. In those quiet moments, I understood that Mother’s love was as deep as the sea and as constant as the tide. Her discipline was never cruel, but always meant to guide me towards kindness, honesty, and respect for others.

(long pause) And so, in the gentle hush of a Skegness afternoon, I learned that every action has its consequence, and that forgiveness, like the seaside sun, always follows the storm. For in the end, a mother’s love is the greatest lesson of all.