My mother was a loving and attentive woman, always striving to do what was best for her family. Yet, there were moments when her patience would wear thin, and her temper, like a sudden summer storm, would break through her gentle manner. We lived in the 1960s, a time when marriage was considered sacred, and the mere mention of divorce was enough to send a shiver down the spine of any respectable household. My mother, having been widowed when I was much younger, bore the weight of responsibility alone, and sometimes the burden was simply too much for her to carry. On those days, I could see the worry etched upon her face as she tried to keep everything in order. When I misbehaved, Mother would fix me with a stern gaze, her eyes sharp and unwavering. She would fetch her sturdy rubber-soled slipper, the one reserved for the gravest of offences, and sit me down to explain, in clear and measured tones, why my behaviour was unacceptable. Then, as a moral lesson, she would administer a sound spanking—ten firm smacks, each one stinging more than the last, delivered with the slipper across my behind. The punishment was never given in anger, but always as a lesson she believed necessary for my upbringing. Afterwards, she would hold me close, smoothing my hair and whispering that she only wanted the best for me, her voice once again soft and full of love.
Mother was tall, about five feet ten inches, and carried herself with a quiet dignity that commanded respect. Her presence filled the room, and her expectations for her children were always clear. My wife, as it happens, is built just like my mother, and it struck me recently how similar they are—not only in stature, but in their unwavering belief in discipline and moral guidance.
My wife and I met when we were both teenagers, at a track meet. I ran for my school and a local club, and she was always there to cheer me on, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Even then, she believed in the importance of discipline and order, often teasing that I would need someone to keep me in line. She would sometimes give me a playful slap on the backside after a good race, but always with a twinkle in her eye and a word of encouragement.
Once, when I arrived at her house late, she pulled me into the kitchen and scolded me like a naughty schoolboy. Her disappointment was clear, and she made certain I understood the importance of punctuality. Then, as a lesson, she gave me five brisk smacks, each one sharp and stinging, before hugging me tightly and reminding me that she only wanted me to be responsible and considerate.
Later that evening, in her bedroom, she spanked me again. But when she saw my bottom, she gasped in concern, for it was already bruised and marked from my mother’s earlier lesson. Her hands were gentle as she examined the marks, and I felt a wave of embarrassment, but also a strange sense of comfort in her care.
She demanded to know what had happened, and I had to confess, rather sheepishly, that my mother had already spanked me earlier that evening. My future wife listened intently, her tone both stern and caring, and waited patiently until I told her the whole story.
The truth was that I had shown poor sportsmanship at the athletics meet and had spoken rudely to an official. Our coach had called Mother and told her everything, including my suspension from the next meet. Mother listened quietly, her face growing more serious with every word, and I knew I would have to face the consequences at home.
When I arrived home, Mother was waiting for me, holding one of her sturdy plimsol—the one she reserved for the most serious offences. She informed me of the coach’s call and my suspension, then bent me over the kitchen table and delivered twelve firm smacks with the plimsol, each one echoing through the room and leaving my bottom sore and red. The pain was sharp, but what hurt most was the disappointment in her eyes. Afterwards, she sat beside me, her hand resting gently on my shoulder as I sobbed, telling me she hoped I would learn from my mistakes.
Mother let me up, but my ordeal was not yet over. She took me by the hand and led me into the living room, where she bent me over the arm of the couch and gave me another ten smacks, each one as hard as the last. I cried out, but she did not stop until her arm was tired. When she finished, she looked exhausted, and I could see that the punishment had taken a toll on her as well.
By then, I was in a flood of tears, and I think Mother felt a little remorseful for punishing me so severely. She sat me on her lap, as if I were much younger, and let me rest my tear-stained face against her. After a while, she stood me up and went to fetch some cold cream, her movements gentle and careful as she tried to soothe the pain she had caused.
When my future wife saw the marks my mother had left, she said, ‘Well, I do not think you are getting another spanking tonight, John—but do not think you are off the hook. You will be going over my knee in the next few days.’ She smiled, her tone light but her eyes serious, and I knew she meant every word.
Making my confession to her left me feeling rather nervous. She scolded me firmly for being a naughty boy, her words both teasing and sincere, and I promised to do better in the future, grateful for her understanding and care.
