Discipline in our home was never taken lightly. I still recall the sting of many a good hard smacking on my bottom . These were lessons I did not soon forget, delivered with a mix of frustration and care that only a mother could give.
As I grew older, changes came to our family. My stepfather entered our lives, bringing new rules and expectations.
It was actually my stepfather’s suggestion that I should be put back in diapers, as he often said I was childlike for my age and, in his words, not very bright. He also suggested that my stepsister, who was some years older than me, should babysit me and was given the right to discipline me as and when she saw fit.
My stepfather was not just strict—he was a bully. He seemed to take pleasure in making me feel small and powerless, often mocking me in front of others and finding fault with everything I did. What made it worse was how he encouraged his own daughter to join in. He would praise her for putting me in my place, telling her that I needed to be taught a lesson. Sometimes, it felt like he enjoyed watching her boss me around and make me feel miserable. Their combined efforts left me feeling isolated and helpless, always dreading what they might do or say next.
Not only was my stepfather a bully, but he was also a complete coward. He would only pick on those he knew couldn’t fight back, always making sure he had someone else to support him or do his dirty work. When confronted by anyone stronger or more confident, he would shrink away, never daring to stand up for himself. His cruelty was just a mask for his own fear and weakness.
After my misadventure by the stream, Mother was deeply concerned. She explained that my little accidents and my tendency to wander off without telling anyone made her worry for my safety and comfort. To prevent further mishaps and to ensure I stayed clean and dry, she decided it was best to put me back in diapers for a while. It was her way of caring for me, even if it felt embarrassing at the time.
My stepsister, several years older than me, was given the responsibility to babysit. She relished the role, often using her authority to discipline me as she saw fit. Sometimes, it felt like she enjoyed having power over me, but looking back, I realize she was searching for her own sense of worth.
She dragged me off to my room. “If you don’t stop fighting, you’re gonna get a lot worse,” she warned. I knew that whether I fought or not, I was going to get spanked so rather than making it worse, I decided to just give in.
She pulled me face-down across her lap, her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size. I could feel my heart pounding as she raised her hand, and then the first smack landed—sharp and stinging. She didn’t hold back, delivering a steady rhythm of smacks that made my bottom burn with each one. I tried to twist away, but she held me firmly, scolding me between each smack. The sound echoed in the room, and soon I was crying and kicking hard, desperate to escape, but I couldn’t get free. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment and pain, and by the time she finished, my bottom was throbbing and I was left sobbing, feeling both punished and powerless.
She didn’t finish until my bottom stung and then she laid me on my bed putting me to bed crying.
Mother heard about my behaviour and how I had given Karen a hard time. She came into my bedroom and seeing that I was awake, she confronted me. “What did I tell you about behaving, Matthew?” she asked me as she pulled me up from my bed. “No, Mother, please don’t!” I begged.
For the second time that night, I found myself face-down over a lap—this time, it was Mother. Her grip was firm and unyielding as she pulled me into position, her voice low and disappointed as she reminded me of my misbehavior. I could feel the tension in the room as she raised her hand and brought it down hard on my bottom, each smack sharper and more deliberate than the last. The sound echoed, and the sting quickly built into a burning pain that made me cry out. Mother didn’t rush; she spanked me steadily, pausing only to scold me between smacks, making sure I understood why I was being punished. My legs kicked helplessly, and I sobbed into the bedding, feeling the heat and humiliation with every strike. By the time she finished, my bottom throbbed and I was left breathless, tears streaming down my face, knowing I had truly disappointed her. The lesson was harsh, but it was given with a mother’s care, meant to teach me right from wrong.
Karen continued to babysit me – and I always made sure that I was on my best behaviour when she did.
Forward nearly 50 Years later, as my stepfather got older, he was the one wearing adult diapers as he was the one who became incontenant with his little accidents. As for the moral of the story, I am sure you can work that one out yourself.
