Childhood in our Scottish council estate was a tapestry of laughter, scraped knees, and the ever-present hum of neighbours’ voices drifting through open windows. The air always seemed tinged with the scent of boiled cabbage and coal smoke, and the clatter of children’s feet echoed up the stairwells. (short pause) Looking back, it’s strange how something as painful as my Mother’s spanking spoon could become a symbol of love and lessons learned.
Mother’s kitchen was the heart of our home. The wallpaper was faded, patterned with yellowing daisies, and the linoleum floor was always cool beneath our bare feet. Among the jumble of wooden spoons, one stood out—a broad-headed spoon, propped up in a chipped ceramic pot. On its handle, in her careful handwriting, Mother had written a Bible verse: Proverbs 23:13. “Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish them with the rod, they will not die.” (pause) We all knew what that spoon meant.
I remember the sharp anticipation when Mother’s voice would ring out, “Who did it?” My brother would shoot me a look, my sisters would freeze mid-giggle, and the whole flat seemed to hold its breath. If you were the culprit, you’d feel your stomach drop as she reached for the spoon. (short pause) Over her knee, the sting was sharp and immediate, burning through even the thickest corduroys. I’d squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the bedspread, convinced I might not survive. “You’ll live,” she’d say, her voice stern but never cruel.
My sisters always said it was worse for them. “At least you boys have trousers,” they’d grumble, rubbing their legs after a spanking. Mother insisted the girls wear dresses, and I remember the sound of their sniffles echoing down the hallway. (pause) We were a traditional family, and Mother ran the house with a firm but loving hand. She wore her floral apron like a badge of honour, bustling from room to room, always knowing exactly who was up to mischief.
The fear of the spoon was real. My brother once whispered, “It’s like sitting on a wasps’ nest!” We’d try to stuff extra underpants under our trousers, hoping for a little mercy, but Mother always seemed to know. (short pause) She was efficient, never angry for long, but she made sure the lesson stuck. Afterward, we’d be left red-faced and teary-eyed, shuffling to the dinner table, shifting in our seats and shooting each other sympathetic glances.
But what I remember most is what came after. Mother would gather us up, one by one, into her lap. She’d stroke our hair, whispering, “You know I love you, don’t you?” Her hands were warm and gentle, her voice soft as she explained why we’d been punished. “I want you to grow up good and kind,” she’d say, “even if it means a sore bottom now and then.”
There were moments of laughter, too—like the time my little sister tried to hide the spoon behind the bread bin, only for Mother to find it and burst out laughing. Or the evenings when we’d all pile onto the sofa, watching the telly with rabbit-ear antennas, the sting of discipline already fading into memory.
