Back in my formative years in the late 60s, I remember my brother had his friend round for the day. I always hated this because I was always one for attention-seeking. I craved to be the center of everyone’s focus, always trying to make sure all eyes were on me, even if it meant acting out or being a bit dramatic. The house would fill with the sound of laughter and conversation, but I would do anything to redirect that attention back to myself, whether by making a scene or inventing some wild story. I felt invisible when the spotlight wasn’t on me, and it made me restless and determined to reclaim it.
That day I was acting up from the word go and I kept on and on giving my brother hell, as well as his friend and most of all my mother; shouting and going off in strops when I couldn’t get my own way. Every little thing became a battle, and I would stomp my feet, slam doors, and raise my voice just to make sure everyone knew how upset I was. My mother’s patience was wearing thin, and I could see the frustration building in her eyes as she tried to keep the peace with guests in the house.
It was around lunchtime when I asked my mother what was for lunch and she said: ‘Waffles.’ The word itself seemed so ordinary, but in my mind, it was an opportunity to make everyone laugh or at least notice me. I was always looking for a way to turn even the simplest moments into a performance.
I burst into hysterical laughter, my mother responding with: ‘Oh, why don’t you grow up?’ Her voice was tinged with exhaustion, and I could tell she was struggling to keep her composure in front of the company. My laughter echoed through the room, drawing the attention of everyone present, which was exactly what I wanted.
‘Because I’m a child, you stupid cow!’ I quickly retorted. The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I saw my mother’s face change instantly. There was a sharp intake of breath from my brother and his friend, and the room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed what I had just said.
My feet hardly touched the ground. As quick as a flash, I was dragged up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom where my mother proceeded to chastise me severely for calling her names, especially in front of visitors. Her face was flushed with anger, her lips pressed into a thin line as she struggled to contain her fury at being shown up in front of company. I could see how much it stung her pride, and her voice trembled with a mix of embarrassment and outrage as she made it clear that such disrespect would not be tolerated, especially with others present. The tension in the room was palpable, and I felt a knot of fear and regret forming in my stomach as I realized I had gone too far.
I then shouted back at her that it was her fault, only to receive a sharp slap round the face. Without a moment’s hesitation, my mother grabbed my arm and pulled me firmly over to the bed. In one swift motion, she sat down, hauled me across her lap. My heart pounded as I felt her strong grip pinning me in place, my face pressed into the bedspread, my legs kicking helplessly. Then, with a determined resolve, she raised her hand and began to spank me, each smack landing with a loud, echoing crack that stung fiercely. The pain was sharp and immediate, building with every blow, and I could feel my skin growing hotter and more tender with each strike. My mother’s voice was stern and unwavering as she scolded me for my rudeness, her words punctuating the rhythm of the spanking. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I sobbed and pleaded, but she continued, making sure I understood the seriousness of my actions. The humiliation of being punished like this, knowing the guests downstairs could probably hear my cries, made the whole ordeal even more unbearable. When she finally stopped, my bottom was burning and my pride was in tatters. She pushed me off her knee and told me to stand up, her face still flushed with anger as I struggled to catch my breath, my body trembling from the ordeal.
I yelled, kicked and screamed throughout, before being pushed off her knee and told to stand up. My face was wet with tears, and I could barely catch my breath as I tried to process what had just happened. The anger and embarrassment mixed together, leaving me feeling small and powerless.
I was told to come downstairs and apologise in front of the guest for what I did. When I refused, I was taken by the arm and marched, tears still streaming down my face, and was told to stand in the corner of the living room where my brother and his friend were until I apologised. The humiliation of standing there, on display for everyone to see, was almost unbearable. I could feel their eyes on me, and I wished I could disappear.
After five minutes, I was so utterly humiliated I really begrudgingly said ‘sorry’. Mother told me to go and stay in my room for a bit. I ran upstairs and burst into tears, the weight of the day’s events crashing down on me. Alone in my room, I replayed everything in my mind, feeling a mix of anger, shame, and regret.
I was never rude to my mother in front of guests again. The lesson was burned into my memory, and from that day on, I thought twice before letting my need for attention get the better of me, especially when others were watching.
