Wisdom I longed to Understand

(gap: 2s) In the gentle days of my childhood, nestled within the humble rows of Ashfield Estate, life moved at a slower, kinder pace. The houses, though worn and weathered, stood proud beneath the ever-grey Kentish sky, and the laughter of children rang out like bells on a Sunday morning. Mothers, wrapped in sensible coats and headscarves, gathered by the wire fences to share news and neighbourly advice, while the scent of coal smoke and baking bread drifted through the air. It was a time when every child knew his place, and every lesson was learned with care and love.

(short pause) I was a thoughtful boy, often lost in wonder about the world and its many mysteries. One question, however, troubled me more than any other: what was it like to be spanked? I had never been naughty enough to warrant such a punishment, and so the matter became a puzzle in my mind. I watched the other children, listened to their tales of mischief and consequence, and wondered if I, too, might one day learn the lesson of a sore bottom and a cleansed conscience.

(pause) My curiosity grew, and I found myself quietly observing the mothers of the estate, each with her own way of guiding her children. Some were stern, others gentle, but all seemed to possess a wisdom I longed to understand. I tried, in my own shy way, to ask my dear Mother about it, but the words would not come. Instead, I pondered in silence, my cheeks warm with embarrassment and my heart full of questions.

(short pause) At times, I even attempted to discipline myself, giving my own bottom a half-hearted smack in the privacy of my small bedroom. Yet, it was not the same. The act lacked the authority and care that only a loving parent could provide. I realised, then, that true discipline was not about pain, but about love, understanding, and the desire to help a child grow into a good and honest person.

(pause) Hoping to provoke a lesson, I began to test my Mother’s patience, behaving in ways I thought might earn me a scolding or even a spanking. But my Mother, wise and gentle, saw through my little rebellions. She would simply sigh, place a kind hand on my shoulder, and remind me that good boys need not seek trouble to know they are loved.

(short pause) Sometimes, in the quiet of the parlour, I would daydream about what it might be like to be taken over Mother’s knee, to feel the sting of her hand and the comfort of her embrace afterwards. I imagined the lesson would be swift and just, and that I would emerge from it a better boy, my heart lighter and my mind at peace.

(pause) My best friend’s mother was a cheerful soul, always ready with a smile and a kind word. I could not imagine her ever raising her hand in anger, and so she remained outside the bounds of my secret curiosity. Yet, one afternoon, as I sat in her kitchen, the question pressed upon me with such force that I could not keep it inside.

(short pause) “May I ask you something?” I ventured, my voice barely above a whisper. She turned to me, her eyes warm and understanding, and nodded. I made her promise to keep our conversation private, and she agreed, her smile never faltering. I told her I had an embarrassing question, and she replied, “If ever you are troubled, you must speak to your Mother. She will know what to do, for that is a Mother’s duty.” Her words comforted me, and though I did not reveal my true thoughts, I felt lighter for having spoken.

(pause) That evening, as the lamps flickered on across the estate and the world grew quiet, I gathered my courage and approached my Mother. I told her, in halting words, about my conversation with my friend’s mother, and about the confusion that weighed upon me. My Mother listened with great care, her brow furrowed with concern, and promised to help me understand.

(short pause) We went to my bedroom, the familiar space now filled with a sense of importance. Mother closed the door and sat beside me, her presence calm and reassuring. I asked her to promise she would not laugh or be cross, and she drew me into a gentle hug. “I promise, my dear boy,” she said softly. “Now, tell me what troubles you, and we shall talk it through.”

(pause) With trembling voice, I explained that my friends had spoken of being spanked, and that I was curious about what it felt like. I confessed that I had worked myself into a state over it, and asked, in a small voice, if she would give me a few smacks so that I might know the lesson for myself.

(short pause) Mother was silent for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. Then, she took my hand in hers and began to tell me a story from her own childhood. “When I was a little girl, younger than you are now, my sister broke an ornament. Mother thought it was me, and sent me to my room. I cried and pleaded, but she did not believe me. An hour later, she returned and smacked my bottom very hard for telling lies. I was innocent, but the lesson stayed with me.”

(pause) She continued, her voice gentle. “I promised myself that when I became a Mother, I would never smack my children unless I was certain they were guilty. I have only ever had to smack your sister once, and I knew she deserved it. Discipline, my dear, must always be fair and given with love.”

(short pause) I listened, my heart full of understanding. Mother smiled at me, her eyes kind. “Would you like me to give you a spanking now, or at bedtime?” she asked, her tone both serious and loving.

(pause) I thought for a moment, then replied, “If I had truly been naughty, when would you do it?” Mother considered this, then answered, “At bedtime, so you might reflect on your actions and begin the next day anew. I would explain why you are being punished, then you would go over my knee and take your smacks bravely. Afterwards, you would say you are sorry, and all would be forgiven.”

(short pause) I nodded, understanding at last the true meaning of discipline. It was not about pain or shame, but about learning right from wrong, and knowing that one is loved even in correction.

(pause) That night, as the house grew still, Mother called me to her side. She sat on the edge of my bed, her lap ready, and I climbed across it as she had described. With gentle firmness, she raised her hand and delivered a few crisp smacks to my bottom, each one stinging just enough to remind me of the lesson. I wriggled and blinked back tears, but I knew in my heart that I was safe and cherished.

(short pause) When it was over, Mother hugged me close and whispered, “You are a good boy, Patrick. Remember, discipline is given with love, and tomorrow is always a new day.” I promised to do my best, and as I drifted off to sleep, I felt a sense of peace and belonging.

(pause) And so, dear reader, I learned that every lesson, even a painful one, is a gift when given with kindness. A spanking, when fair and loving, teaches not only obedience, but also forgiveness and the comfort of a Mother’s embrace. In the end, it is love that shapes us, and the gentle guidance of those who care for us most.