Back in the mid-1950s, I witnessed an unforgettable event that would leave a lasting impression on me. My parents, who were close friends with another family, often babysat their daughter, Beverly, who was four years younger than me. Beverly and I had grown up together, sharing countless afternoons filled with laughter and games. Both Beverly and I were fortunate to have loving, attentive parents, and discipline was rarely necessary in our homes. However, on this particular day, everything changed, and I learned a lesson I would never forget.
On that memorable afternoon, my parents and I visited Beverly’s family at their home. The adults gathered in the living room, their voices a gentle hum in the background, while Beverly and I retreated to her bedroom. We were completely absorbed in our play, giggling uncontrollably at our own silly antics, feeling safe and carefree in our little world.
Suddenly, Beverly paused mid-laugh and blurted out, ‘I have to go wee wee!’ She clutched herself and dashed for the bathroom, but before she could make it, she lost control and wet herself. The sound must have caught her mother’s attention, because she appeared in the doorway almost instantly, her face a mixture of surprise and dismay at the scene before her.
Seeing what had happened, Beverly’s mother’s expression shifted from concern to anger, especially with company present. She strode over to Beverly, her movements brisk and purposeful. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around Beverly’s waist and delivered about six firm, resounding spanks to her daughter’s bottom. Each smack echoed in the room, sharp and deliberate, as Beverly’s small body jolted forward with every impact. The sound of palm meeting flesh was unmistakable, and Beverly’s cries grew louder with each swat. Her mother’s face was set in a stern frown, her hand rising and falling in a steady rhythm, making sure the lesson was clear. Beverly’s legs kicked and her hands instinctively reached back, but her mother held her firmly in place, determined to finish. When it was over, Beverly stood facing me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pain, while I sat frozen, unsure of what to do or say.
After the spanking, Beverly’s mother took her by the hand and led her, still crying, down the hallway to the bathroom. There, Beverly was made to sit on the toilet to finish what she had started. As she helped her daughter, Beverly’s mother’s face was flushed with embarrassment—she felt exposed and judged, especially with guests in the house. The accident had caught her off guard, and she worried that others might think she was neglectful or not strict enough as a parent. Her actions were driven not just by anger, but by a deep sense of humiliation at having her daughter wet herself in front of company. Once Beverly was done, her mother gently but firmly washed her lower body with a warm washcloth, making sure she was clean. Then, Beverly was brought back to the bedroom, where her mother helped her into fresh clothes, her earlier misadventure now a memory lingering in the air.
Later that afternoon, the tension had eased, and we found ourselves playing outside in the backyard. Beverly, now dressed in a clean, pretty dress, confided in me that her bottom still ached from the spanking. Her voice was quiet, tinged with both embarrassment and a hint of pride for having endured the ordeal.
From that day on, I understood first hand that mothers do indeed spank on the bottom, sometimes even with others watching. The image of Beverly standing there, receiving her punishment, is forever etched in my memory, a vivid reminder of the lessons and emotions of childhood.
It’s important to remember that in modern times, this kind of punishment would be considered totally unfair and, thankfully, is almost unheard of today. But back then, it was simply the way parents were, and it was just accepted as normal.
