Our household held onto old-fashioned values. My parents, especially my mother, believed that discipline was necessary for raising children. Smacking was seen as normal, and my mother always said a good smack never did any harm. I dreaded the smacked bottoms I received, mostly from my mother since my father was at work. No matter how hard I tried to behave, there always seemed to be a reason for punishment. The anticipation was often worse than the punishment itself, and I would spend ages worrying about what was to come. My mother only used her hand for chastisement, believing it was hard enough. I can’t remember when the spankings started, but they didn’t last much beyond my second year at senior school. The memory of those moments, the tension, and being sent to my room in disgrace have stayed with me ever since.
My mother was larger than average, but not fat. She dressed simply, in practical clothes that matched her no-nonsense attitude. Her manner was straightforward and firm, but fair. I was often rude or disobedient, so I earned a ‘good smacked bottom’ several times. These punishments happened in my bedroom. I would be told I was to be punished and sent to my room, where I waited for 20 to 30 minutes. Sometimes, if I misbehaved while out, I knew what was coming on the way home. My mother’s hand was always ready for discipline. Her hands were strong and capable, and I especially feared when she quietly called me over, signaling punishment was coming. She never raised her voice, but her calm, determined manner made it clear there was no escape.
Once in my room, I had to get undressed and put on my pyjamas, as I was always sent to bed in disgrace after a smacking. Changing into pyjamas made the experience feel even more humiliating, as if I was being stripped of my dignity. I would sit on the edge of my bed, nervously listening for footsteps on the stairs, dreading my mother’s arrival.
After a while, I would hear my mother coming up the stairs. The apprehension was intense—I can still recall the knot in my stomach. Each creak of the floorboards echoed my fear, and I sometimes hoped she might let me off with a warning, but she never did.
When she entered my room, she told me to bend over the bed. I would be bent across the edge, feet on the floor, stomach on the bed, my pyjamas offering little protection. As I got older, she put pillows on the bed for me to bend across. The anticipation was almost unbearable. I could hear her moving behind me as she prepared. My heart pounded, and I gripped the bedspread, bracing for the first sting. The cool air and the rustle of my pyjamas heightened my dread. Every second stretched out, and I sometimes squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it would end quickly.
Then I would get a brief talking-to about why I was being punished, and then the smacking began. I don’t know how many smacks I got—it went on for some time, and I would be crying and pleading for it to stop. If I put my hands in the way or wriggled, she would pause, tell me she wasn’t finished, and then continue. The sound of her hand striking my bottom was sharp, and the sting lingered long after. Sometimes, I promised myself never to misbehave again, but the cycle repeated.
I know the spankings were hard because I had vivid marks for some time after. Once, in the school changing rooms, someone commented on my bruised bottom, saying my mother must have smacked me hard. I muttered something about slipping over, but I doubt anyone believed me. The embarrassment of explaining those marks was almost as bad as the punishment, and I learned to be careful about changing for gym class.
I think my punishments were fair—if anything, I probably deserved more. I half wanted to continue getting physical chastisement when I was older, but by then it was becoming unfashionable. I never got the cane at school, as it was abolished by the time I was in later secondary school. Looking back, I see my mother’s approach was shaped by her upbringing and the times. While I wouldn’t want to go through it again, I understand she believed she was doing the right thing, and in her own way, she cared deeply about us.
