(gap: 2s) My childhood was marked by a most peculiar fascination with the subject of discipline. As a young girl, I would seek out tales of punishment in storybooks and comics, and would listen most attentively to any mention of such matters in conversation.
I would line up my dolls and teddy bear, administering to them the most proper and decorous reprimands, and would even, on occasion, deliver a light tap to my own person, simply to experience what I imagined others must feel. If a schoolmate had been the recipient of a scolding or worse, I would question them most thoroughly afterwards.
Yet, to my great vexation, I was never once chastised by an adult myself. I would, from time to time, test the boundaries of my parents’ patience, but not once did I receive so much as a single smack.
This lack of discipline left me with a sense of injustice and, I confess, a certain bitterness. It seems quite absurd to admit, but I often wondered if I might have grown up with a different outlook had I been subject to the same corrections as others.
One afternoon, at a family gathering, my sister and I were deep in conversation when a group of children, full of high spirits, dashed past us, their voices raised in gleeful tumult.
My sister, with admirable composure, caught hold of her son and addressed him in a most serious tone: “If you do not sit down and compose yourself, you shall receive a smacked bottom!” The little fellow obeyed at once, which led me to believe he was no stranger to such consequences.
I was both astonished and intrigued by my sister’s words, for I had always assumed she, like myself, had never been subject to such discipline.
To my surprise, she replied, “You may not have been, but I was not so fortunate!” She explained that our parents had embarked upon an ‘experiment’ when I was born. Unlike my sister, I was to be raised without recourse to corporal punishment, but rather with other forms of correction such as standing in the corner or the removal of privileges.
My sister then recounted several occasions on which she had been disciplined as a child, most notably one administered by Mother for what she termed ‘backchat’ and a general want of respect.
She was summoned to Mother’s bedroom and given a traditional over-the-knee spanking. During the proceedings, my sister made a remark which further incensed Mother—perhaps she claimed it did not hurt, though she could not recall the exact words.
In response, Mother took up her hairbrush, placed my sister once more over her knee, and delivered a most memorable lesson. My sister described it as the most painful experience of her youth. In retrospect, she felt it was rather severe, but admitted that it was a considerable time before she required another such correction.
The revelation of this disparity in our upbringing troubled me greatly. It seemed most unfair that, by mere accident of birth, I had missed out on what I considered a formative experience. I am aware of how foolish this sounds, but at the time, it weighed heavily upon me.
I was tempted to raise the matter with Mother, but fortunately, I regained my composure before making a spectacle of myself. Imagine, if you will, a grown daughter complaining to her mother for not having been disciplined as a child!
Not long after this, I made the acquaintance of Ian. I had, on occasion, requested that previous suitors administer a light smack, but their efforts were half-hearted at best. With Ian, I was forthright about my feelings, insisting that he take the matter seriously if our acquaintance was to continue. (I blush to recall my boldness.)
Once the matter was settled, I found myself much relieved. Ian proved most obliging, and I was at last content. Yet, the sense of having missed out on a proper childhood discipline has never quite left me.
During our playful moments, I often imagine myself as a child being corrected for impertinence. Sometimes, I even request a reprimand for that very reason, and Ian is always willing to oblige.
I must add that I am also permitted to discipline Ian, which I find most diverting. He does not derive the same enjoyment from it, but he is rewarded in other ways, so he endures it with good grace.
I have questioned Ian at length about his own childhood, particularly regarding any discipline he may have received. I shall now allow him to relate his own story…
Ian: I have a brother three years my junior. When we were children, my parents insisted that I look after him and take him everywhere I went. As he was younger and smaller, he could not keep pace with me and my friends, and I was often obliged to wait for him, much to my annoyance.
Punishments at home were generally of the industrious variety. I was made to work in the garden—pulling weeds, sweeping, and so forth. Occasionally, my bicycle would be confiscated, and I would not be permitted to go out. I was not, however, subject to corporal punishment—until the day the travelling fair arrived in town.
I was expressly forbidden to go to the fair by bicycle, as this would require crossing a road deemed too dangerous for my brother. My friends all rode to the fair, leaving me behind with my brother, which I found most vexing.
Presently, we encountered a boy we knew, whose father was taking him to the fair by motorcar. He kindly offered to take us as well, placing our bicycles in the boot. This seemed entirely proper to me, as we had not crossed the road on our own.
We had a splendid time. I saw all my friends, enjoyed a toffee apple, and sampled the various amusements. My brother even won a goldfish in a plastic bag—a most prized possession in those days.
The boy’s father drove us home and deposited us at our house. Mother and Father came out to thank him for his kindness. My brother was asked if he was well and proudly displayed his goldfish. Father then took me by the hand and led me to the sitting room, while Mother fussed over my brother and his prize.
It was not until Mother joined us that the atmosphere grew sombre, and I realised I was in trouble. Father reproved me for disobeying their instructions regarding the fair. I attempted to explain that we had not crossed the road, but my protestations were to no avail.
Father turned to Mother and said, “Mother, I shall leave this to you. See that he learns not to disobey us. If there is a next time, I shall deal with it myself.”
I did not like the sound of this at all. There was no mention of the usual garden work. Mother took my hand and said simply, “Come with me.”
I was led to my bedroom, and the door was closed. I knew I was in serious trouble—Mother’s expression was stern and resolute. Meanwhile, my brother was downstairs, happily admiring his goldfish.
Mother sat down on my bed and, to my dismay, removed my shorts and undergarments. Although I had never been smacked before, I knew this was the customary preparation for such a punishment.
Mother positioned me carefully across her knee, my upper half resting on the bed, my lower half between her legs, my bottom raised. I waited in silence.
Without a word, she delivered ten slow, firm smacks, five to each side. I screwed up my eyes—it was most painful. I did not cry, for I felt the punishment was undeserved.
There was a pause, long enough for me to think it was over. I began to rise, but was promptly placed back over Mother’s knee, and ten more smacks followed, just as firm and deliberate.
This second round brought me close to tears. Then, after another pause, Mother changed her approach. Ten very brisk smacks were delivered to the backs of my thighs, which stung far more than those to my bottom, and at last I began to cry.
Mother waited once more, then returned to my bottom. Ten more slow, hard smacks rekindled the burning sensation, and my discomfort increased.
I waited, weeping quietly into my bedspread, when yet another set of ten smacks was administered. These were particularly severe, and I cried out loudly, clutching the bedspread and repeatedly exclaiming my apologies, hoping to bring the ordeal to an end.
Instead, Mother delivered another ten to my thighs. My entire lower half was now aflame, and I kicked and twisted, but Mother held me firmly. Two more rounds of slow, deliberate smacks followed, and then a rapid finale that covered both thighs and buttocks. I am certain my bottom was as hot as a griddle by the end.
At last, Mother stood up, allowing me to slide to the floor, kneeling with my head on the bed.
She said, “If there is a next time, your father will use his belt. I suggest you learn from this and never disobey us again.” She left me alone with my burning, throbbing bottom and thighs, sobbing quietly.
I should mention that my brother was never punished, and I resented him all the more for it. I bore a grudge against my parents for many years, for I felt the punishment was unjust.
I never received another spanking from them, but even now, after all these years, I feel a lingering bitterness about the experience. There have been times when I considered raising the subject with my parents, but, like Liz, I decided it would serve no purpose but to reopen old wounds.
I am certain my parents have noticed the distance between us over the years. My brother has moved away, and we seldom see him. I still harbour a grudge, much as Liz does, though for a very different reason. Had I deserved the punishment, I believe it would have been easier to accept.
