I was the youngest of five children, growing up in a bustling, laughter-filled house nestled in a small Irish town. Our home was always alive with the sounds of siblings squabbling, the clatter of feet on wooden floors, and the comforting aroma of my mother’s baking drifting from the kitchen. Yet, beneath the warmth and love, there was a firm undercurrent of discipline—rooted in our family’s deep Catholic faith. My parents, like so many of their generation, believed that a well-smacked bottom was the surest way to teach right from wrong.
My mother, a woman of gentle hands but unwavering resolve, was the chief enforcer of discipline. Her voice could be soft as a lullaby or sharp as a whip, depending on the occasion. Most often, her hand was the instrument of justice, delivering swift, stinging reminders to behave. Sometimes, though, she would reach for the old leather slipper—a battered relic she claimed had tanned her own hide many times as a girl. The slipper was a symbol of family tradition, its presence in the hallway a silent warning to us all.
For the gravest offences, however, it was our father who took charge. The ritual was always the same: we would be summoned to our parents’ bedroom, hearts pounding, where the dreaded leather belt lay coiled in the top drawer like a sleeping serpent. ‘Getting the belt’ was a rare but unforgettable ordeal, the anticipation as punishing as the act itself. The memory of that cold leather biting into my skin still lingers, a sharp contrast to the gentle comfort of my father’s embrace on better days.
My three sisters, my brother, and I were a lively, mischievous bunch—forever testing boundaries, inventing games, and getting into scrapes. It was a rare week when one of us didn’t find ourselves on the receiving end of a spanking. Yet, even in those moments, there was a sense of fairness, a knowledge that the rules were clear and the consequences just.
Punishments were almost always private affairs, carried out behind closed doors. But if two or more of us had conspired in some mischief, we would stand in a solemn line, faces to the wall, listening to the sounds of justice being meted out to our partners in crime. If the punishment was only a hand spanking, my mother’s voice would ring out. Any protest or hesitation was met with a steely glare—and the promise of a sorer bottom for our trouble.
I can still recall the sickening knot in my stomach as I climbed across my mother’s lap. If the slipper was to be used, the humiliation was doubled: we had to fetch it ourselves, each step down the hallway echoing with dread.
My mother was an expert in her craft. The first smack always made me instinctively reach back to shield my stinging skin, but she was ready—catching my wrists in one strong hand, holding me firmly in place as the punishment continued. The sound of smacks and cries would fill the house, each one distinct: the sharp slap of a hand, the dull thud of the slipper, or the terrifying crack of the belt. Even from another room, you could tell exactly what was happening, and to whom.
But one memory stands out above all the rest—a day when my brother and I, emboldened by childish greed, tried to steal sweets from the local newsagent. The thrill of the heist quickly turned to terror when we were caught, our faces burning with shame as the shopkeeper’s stern gaze bore down on us. My father was away on business, but my mother was more than equal to the task of dealing with us.
We were sent to our bedroom to wait, the minutes stretching into an eternity. I remember the oppressive silence, broken only by the distant sounds of my siblings playing outside, oblivious to our fate. At last, my mother’s footsteps approached. She called for my brother first. I listened, heart hammering, as the door to my parents’ room opened and closed, the top drawer slid open, and then—after a brief, dreadful pause—the unmistakable crack of leather on flesh. My brother’s cries soon followed, desperate and pleading, but my mother’s resolve did not waver. The punishment continued, each smack a lesson in consequence.
By the time my name was called, I was trembling with fear, my mouth dry and my legs weak. Passing my sobbing brother in the hallway, I felt a surge of guilt and dread. The bedroom felt colder than ever as I closed the door behind me. The air was thick with anticipation, the curtains drawn so that only a thin shaft of light fell across the bed. My mother sat at the edge, her face set with a mixture of disappointment and determination. She patted her lap, and I knew what was expected. With shaking hands, I undid my belt, my fingers clumsy and slow, and lowered my trousers and underwear. The humiliation was sharp, my cheeks burning as I shuffled forward and draped myself across her knees.
The moment seemed to stretch on forever. I could feel the rough fabric of her skirt beneath my stomach, the cool air on my bare skin, and the pounding of my heart in my ears. My mother’s hand rested on my back for a moment, steadying me, and then the first smack landed—sharp, stinging, and utterly inescapable. I gasped, the pain blooming across my skin, and instinctively tried to twist away, but her arm held me fast. Each smack was deliberate, echoing in the small room, the pain building with every blow. My eyes filled with tears, and I bit my lip, determined not to cry out, but the burning sting soon overwhelmed my resolve. I sobbed, the sound muffled by the bedspread, my shame and regret as raw as the pain itself.
When it was over, my mother let me up, her expression softening as she pulled me into a brief, comforting hug. My bottom throbbed, hot and sore, and I struggled to pull up my clothes with trembling hands. The walk back to my room felt endless, my face streaked with tears, my pride wounded. Yet, as I lay on my bed, the pain slowly fading, I understood the lesson she meant to teach. The memory of that spanking—its sting, its shame, and its aftermath—remained with me for years, a vivid reminder of the boundaries I was expected to respect.
That whipping was the hardest I ever received. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, but it was the shame and regret that stung the most. Even so, it was not the last time I found myself across my father’s lap, the belt a constant reminder of the boundaries we were expected to respect. Looking back now, I see those moments not just as punishments, but as lessons—painful, yes, but delivered with a kind of love that sought to guide us, not break us. In the end, it was the combination of discipline and affection that shaped the adults we would become.
