During my childhood, I often found myself on the receiving end of a well-deserved smacked bottom. The most unforgettable instance occurred just days before my birthday. My parents always hired a babysitter whenever they went out or hosted gatherings. We were always dressed in our pajamas before the sitter arrived. My brother, the sitter, and I were expected to stay in the spare room upstairs or the bedroom during ‘adults only’ parties.
Charlotte was given the authority to discipline us if necessary, but she was not permitted to use physical punishment.
On this particular evening, my mother, who was a member of the “Women’s Institute”, was hosting one of their meetings at our home.
In the late 1960s, my parents were social climbers, always eager to impress others with their extravagant parties and social events. It was as if it were always a chance to show off our modern middle-class home.
Our house was the epitome of 1960s modernity, filled with all the latest conveniences. The living room boasted sleek, low-profile furniture with clean lines and bold colors. The walls were adorned with abstract art, and a sunburst clock took pride of place above the fireplace. The kitchen was a marvel of modern design, with its Formica countertops, built-in appliances, and a breakfast nook that featured a tulip table and matching chairs.
The dining room had a Scandinavian influence, with teak wood furniture and minimalist decor. The bedrooms were equally stylish, with geometric patterns on the wallpaper and bedspreads. The bathroom was a vision in pastel tiles, complete with a pink bathtub and matching sink. Every room was a testament to the era’s love for innovation and style.
They entertained frequently, often neglecting us in the process. Their focus was on maintaining appearances and climbing the social ladder, sometimes at the expense of their own children.
I felt I was too mature for a babysitter. After all, I was nearly old enough to babysit myself! Charlotte was only a year and a half older than me.
The idea of being babysat by someone just 18 months older than me was infuriating. It felt like a blow to my sense of maturity. I couldn’t bear the thought of being treated like a child by someone so close to my age. My frustration grew, fueling my determination to defy her authority.
I made things difficult for Charlotte. I did the opposite of everything she asked. When she put on a TV show, I changed the channel. I relentlessly teased my brother. I outright refused to go to bed at my usual 9 pm bedtime.
Honestly, I never considered the consequences. Charlotte never tattled on us. The worst she ever did was give us corner time or threaten to tell.
This time, I must have pushed her too far. At 9:30, Charlotte went to the living room to speak with Mother.
Mother stormed into the room, angrier than I had ever seen her. Her face was red with fury, her eyes narrowed. She was seething, her entire body radiating anger.
“Peter, get over here – now!” she commanded, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. I expected a stern lecture and then to be sent to bed. How wrong I was.
Mother pulled me over her knee and delivered 12 of the hardest smacks I had ever received. Each smack echoed through the room, a sharp reminder of my defiance. The sting was excruciating, and my face burned with embarrassment. My younger brother watched in shock, and Charlotte stood there, her face a mix of surprise and pity. The humiliation of being punished so publicly, in front of my brother and the sitter, was almost worse than the pain itself. I felt utterly small and powerless, my pride shattered.
Still fuming from being interrupted during her evening of entertaining, Mother then ordered me to stand in the corner for half an hour, warning me not to move or she would return with the Hairbrush.
Sometimes, when we misbehaved, Mother would use a hairbrush on both my brother and me. The sharp sting of the brush was a dreaded punishment, one that left us both in tears and promising to behave. The mere mention of the hairbrush was enough to make us think twice about our actions.
The further humiliation of standing there with a stinging bottom, my face still flushed from the smacked bottom, was unbearable. I could feel the eyes of my brother and Charlotte on me, their silent judgment adding to my shame. The corner felt like a spotlight, highlighting my disgrace for everyone to see.
