When I was in my formative years, I got many spankings. One day, I had been particularly bad, so my mother decided that she would spank me herself, instead of letting my father do it.
My mother rarely spanked me, as my father was in charge of spanking me. This day was different. I was made to lie on my bed, on my stomach,
Before I turned over, I saw what she was going to spank me with. It was a wooden long-handled bath brush. The brush was heavy and solid, made from polished beechwood, with a broad, flat back and a smooth, rounded handle that fit perfectly in an adult’s grip. The bristles on the other side were stiff and white, but it was the hard, gleaming wood that caught my eye and made my heart race. It always hung on a hook in the bathroom, a quiet but ever-present warning.
At first I protested, and wouldn’t turn over, but she turned me over herself and went to work on my bottom.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Each strike landed with a sharp, resounding crack that echoed through the room. The initial sting was sharp, like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skin. I could feel the heat building with each smack, spreading across my bottom like a wildfire.
My mother’s face was stern, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes betrayed a deep sadness. She didn’t want to do this, but she felt she had to. I could see the conflict in her eyes, the love and the duty warring within her.
The pain was unbearable, each smack sending a jolt through my body. I tried to squirm away, but her grip was firm, holding me in place. Tears streamed down my face, and I could taste the salt on my lips. My cries filled the room, mingling with the sound of the brush meeting my skin.
I lost count of how many smacks she applied to my bottom. Each one felt like an eternity, the seconds stretching out as I waited for the next blow. My bottom was on fire, the skin red and raw, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit for quite a while after that spanking.
As the spanking continued, my thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions. I felt regret for my actions, fear of the pain, and a deep sense of shame. But beneath it all, there was a strange sense of comfort. My mother was there, her presence a constant, even in this moment of discipline.
Finally, the spanking ended. My mother set the brush aside, her hands trembling slightly. She helped me up, her touch gentle now, and I could see the tears in her eyes. She didn’t say anything, but her expression spoke volumes. She didn’t want to hurt me, but she needed to teach me a lesson.
The wooden bath brush became a symbol of discipline in our household. It was always there, hanging in the bathroom, a silent reminder of the consequences of misbehavior.
As I lay on my bed, feeling the sting and the heat on my bottom, I promised myself I would never be that bad again. The lesson was learned, not just through the pain, but through the love and care that my mother showed, even in that moment of discipline.
Childhood was a mix of innocence and discipline, laughter and tears. And through it all, the love of my family was the constant that guided me, even when it came with a wooden bath brush.
