Heather’s parents were good friends with my own folks at church and often babysat me when my parents needed it. At this particular time, I was staying with them for a few days during a school week because my parents were away for their wedding anniversary.
We had been good girls for most of the week. We made it like a sleepover – when we got home from school, we changed into pyjamas and then did our homework.
All was well until the Thursday night. After our homework was done, we played and began to act silly. Heather’s mom had to remind us several times to play nicely, and to calm down before bedtime.
When I put on my diaper for the night, Heather asked if she could try one too. It was so funny to see her wearing a diaper as well. Then it was bedtime, and Heather’s mother came and kissed us goodnight. However, we were in no mood to go to sleep. We kept talking and playing music, and Heather’s mother came in several times to reprimand us.
Finally, she told us that if we hadn’t calmed down and were in bed within five minutes, she would give us both a spanking. Unfortunately, we didn’t take the threat seriously and after hearing music again, she came in and caught us dancing around with our pillows.
Heather’s mother turned off the music. “You are both very naughty girls!” she said, her voice stern but not unkind. “Heather, what did I say would happen if you didn’t go to sleep?” With tears already welling in her eyes, Heather obediently replied, her voice trembling: “A spanking, mother.” “That’s right,” her mom replied, her tone gentle but firm.
Before I continue, I should describe Heather’s mother. She was the picture of a typical Scottish mother in the early 1970s—practical and no-nonsense, with a gentle but unwavering authority. Her accent was soft but unmistakable, and she wore her hair in a neat bun, always dressed in a simple house dress and apron. There was a warmth to her, a kindness in her eyes, but also a firmness that made it clear she expected to be listened to. She moved with a quiet confidence, her presence filling the room in a way that was both comforting and commanding.
“Sarah, you go and stand in the corner while I give Heather her spanking. Then it will be your turn.” My heart pounded as I shuffled to the corner, the wooden floor cool beneath my feet. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Heather’s mother sitting on the edge of the bed, her face set with determination, yet a softness in her eyes that showed she didn’t enjoy this part of being a parent. Heather, sniffling, approached her mother, her small hands twisting nervously in her lap. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of lavender from the bedsheets.
Heather’s mother gently guided Heather across her lap, arranging her carefully. The rustle of pajamas and the crinkle of the diaper seemed loud in the quiet room. Heather’s toes barely touched the floor as she lay across her mother’s knees, her face buried in her arms. There was a brief pause, a moment of silence where even the house seemed to hold its breath. Then, the sound of her mother’s hand meeting Heather’s bottom echoed softly, not harsh but firm, each smack punctuated by Heather’s quiet sobs. I could hear her breathing quicken, her cries muffled but real, and I felt a strange mix of sympathy, nervousness, and guilt as I stood in the corner, my own cheeks burning with anticipation.
After a few moments, Heather’s mother finished and gently helped Heather up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her daughter’s tear-streaked face. She whispered something comforting, and Heather, still sniffling, nodded and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Then, Heather’s mother called me over from the corner. My legs felt heavy as I walked across the room, my heart thumping in my chest.
The moment I realized I was about to be spanked by someone else’s mother, a wave of embarrassment washed over me—far deeper than anything I’d felt at home. There was something uniquely vulnerable about being disciplined by an adult who wasn’t my own parent. I felt exposed, as if I was being seen in a way I never had before. The room felt colder, the air prickling against my skin, and I was acutely aware of every sound: the creak of the bed, the soft rustle of my pajamas, the faint hum of the house settling.
As she looked at me with that same calm, steady gaze, I knew she wasn’t angry—just determined to teach us a lesson. But it was so different from being with my own mom. With my mother, there was a familiarity, a sense of knowing exactly what to expect, even if I dreaded it. Here, everything felt uncertain and magnified. My cheeks burned with shame, and I felt small and awkward as she gently guided me across her lap. Her hands were warm and reassuring, but I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of humiliation, knowing Heather was watching, and that I was being corrected by someone else’s parent.
The sensation of being in that position was strange and humbling, the fabric of my pajamas soft against my skin, the crinkle of the diaper beneath me a constant reminder of my childishness. The first smack landed with a gentle sting, not unbearable but enough to make me squirm. Each swat was firm, but never cruel, and yet the emotional impact was far greater than the physical. I felt tears prick at my eyes—not so much from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of vulnerability and the sting of being disciplined by someone who wasn’t my own mother. I wanted to disappear, to hide under the covers and never come out.
When it was over, she helped me up, gave me a gentle hug, and told me to get into bed. Like Heather, I pulled the covers up and tried to calm my racing heart, the lesson lingering in the quiet darkness of the room. The embarrassment and vulnerability stayed with me, a memory far more vivid than any punishment I’d ever received at home.
(short pause) As we both lay there, sniffling quietly under our covers, Heather’s mother stood in the doorway for a moment, her silhouette framed by the soft hallway light. Her voice was gentle but carried a clear warning as she spoke: “Now, I expect you both to settle down and go straight to sleep. If I have to come in here again tonight, it won’t be my hand you’ll be feeling—it will be the slipper.” (pause) The seriousness in her tone left no doubt that she meant it. The threat of the slipper was enough to make us both nod quickly, pulling the blankets tighter around ourselves. Neither of us dared to make another sound, and the room finally fell into a deep, respectful silence.
