My brother Jeffrey, who was two years older, and I, Peter, got spanked once in a water-related escapade. Our mother was a woman of simple tastes, always dressed plainly in a modest cotton dress and a practical apron, her hair usually tied back with a scarf. She stood tall and carried herself with quiet authority, her posture straight and her gaze unwavering. She had a way of moving that was both efficient and purposeful, never wasting a moment. There was no nonsense with her—she expected us to behave and made her expectations clear with just a look or a firm word. Yet, beneath her stern exterior, she was always fair, never punishing us without reason, and her discipline was always measured. She believed in teaching us right from wrong, and though she could be strict, we knew she cared deeply for us. One particular day stands out in my memory…
Jeffrey and I, Peter, had come home from school and were going out to a church dinner that evening. We were sent upstairs to take a bath and get ready. During the transition from Jeffrey getting out of the tub and me getting in, he discovered that with wet feet, the hallway made a great sliding experience. The floors had been recently varnished, gleaming invitingly under the afternoon light.
The next thing I knew, following Jeffrey’s lead (my youthful stupidity!) we were taking water out of the tub with a small plastic bucket and throwing it on the floor. The sloshing sound was music to our ears. As it turned out, the more water on the floor, the more fun we were having. That is, until our mother appeared at the top of the stairs.
There must have been an inch of water covering the entire floor in the hallway and it was seeping into the surrounding carpet, etc. Needless to say, she went bananas! Her face was a storm cloud of fury. She smacked our bottoms with her hand a couple of times and pushed Jeffrey and me into our bedroom where she told us to get on our beds and not to move. “As soon as I get this mess mopped up, you’re both going to get the hairbrush!”
As Jeffrey and I laid on our beds, who should appear but my older sister. She had a lot of things to tell my mother about her day in school, especially since she was now in junior high. As my mother mopped, she invited my sister to sit on the chair in our bedroom.
So, there we were, Jeffrey and I on our beds, my sister sitting in the chair by the door talking to my mother, who was in the hallway mopping away. Of course, my sister took the side of my mother in exclaiming how terrible a crime we had committed.
When my mother told her that she was going to spank us, she asked her what she was going to spank us with. My sister grinned with excitement as soon as she heard it was going to be the hairbrush! “That will teach them a good lesson, I know it will. The hairbrush really hurts when you get spanked with it,” reported my sister from her own experience.
The next thing I heard was my mother saying: “I’m going to dump this water out, honey. Will you go get the hairbrush from my dresser and bring it back here?” I never saw my sister move so fast, and she was back in our room holding the hairbrush, presenting it like a trophy, before my mother returned.
Mother thanked my sister, then strode over to Jeffrey’s bed with the hairbrush gripped tightly in her hand. Without hesitation, she pulled him across her lap, his face pressed into the blanket, his legs kicking in anticipation. The first smack landed with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the room. Jeffrey’s body jolted with each blow, the hairbrush rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. His bottom quickly turned a deep shade of red, and he squirmed and yelped, but Mother’s grip was unyielding. The spanking seemed to go on forever, each swat delivered with unwavering force, until his cries filled the air and tears streamed down his cheeks.
My turn came next. My heart pounded as Mother called me, Peter, over, her eyes stern and determined. She pulled me over her lap, my stomach pressed against her knees, my hands clutching the bedspread. The hairbrush struck my bottom with a sting that took my breath away, the pain blooming instantly. Each smack was deliberate and punishing, the sound of wood on flesh ringing in my ears. I kicked and cried out, but Mother continued, her arm never faltering. My sister watched, wide-eyed and almost gleeful, as my yells grew louder and my resolve crumbled. The burning pain was overwhelming, and I sobbed uncontrollably, feeling utterly helpless.
When Mother finally finished with me, I was left gasping and trembling. But she wasn’t done. She returned to Jeffrey, rolling him over and delivering a ‘reminder’ spanking—about two dozen rapid, stinging smacks that left him breathless and sobbing anew. Then she repeated the same on me, the hairbrush biting into my already sore skin. The pain was searing, and I could barely catch my breath between the blows. By the end, both Jeffrey and I were left in tears, our bottoms throbbing and our pride shattered, the lesson painfully etched into our memories.
We did go to church later for dinner. It was hard to sit down and I noticed my sister whispering to all her friends and then watching them look over at Jeffrey and me and giggle. The whispers felt like tiny daggers. I knew she was recalling the afternoon’s events to them and I really felt embarrassed. I was in the third grade and thought I was too big to get spanked anymore!
Unfortunately, there were more spankings right into junior high school.
