(short pause) Our family was close-knit, bound by tradition and a deep sense of right and wrong. My parents believed in raising us with clear boundaries, and discipline was never far from reach. Spankings were a part of our upbringing, reserved for serious missteps, and always delivered with a sense of purpose rather than anger. My father’s large hands, calloused from years on the force, could deliver a spanking that stung both body and pride, but my mother’s were no less effective—her disappointment was often harder to bear than the physical pain.
(pause) Although our parents never used an implement—just their hands—the act of being put over their knees always felt like more than just punishment. It was as if, in those moments, they wanted to keep us as childlike as possible, to remind us of our place and their authority. The ritual was always the same. After a transgression, we’d be sent to our rooms, the air thick with anticipation and dread. I remember the way the sunlight would slant through the curtains, dust motes swirling in the stillness as I waited, heart pounding, for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The lecture would come first—a quiet, measured disappointment that seemed to echo in the small room. Then, the inevitable: over the knee, the sting of a hand, the heat rising in my cheeks and my eyes stinging with unshed tears. Our parents never used anything but their hands, but the message was always clear and lasting.
(pause) Looking back, it often felt as if our parents’ discipline was about more than just correcting our behavior. Their overbearing parenting sometimes made it seem like they didn’t want us to grow up or think for ourselves. The last spanking I received is etched in my memory with painful clarity. I was caught smoking with two other boys at school—a reckless act that led to suspension. The shame of being called to the principal’s office, the heavy silence as my mother drove me home, and the cold dread as she told me to wait in my room until my father returned—all of it felt like a slow, suffocating wave. I hadn’t been spanked in over a year, and I clung to the hope that maybe, this time, I’d just be grounded.
(short pause) That afternoon, the house was unusually quiet. Liz and her best friend Heather were working on a school project in the living room, their voices muffled behind closed doors. I barely registered their presence, lost in my own anxious thoughts as I sat on the edge of my bed, tracing patterns in the worn quilt and listening for the sound of my father’s car in the driveway.
(pause) When my father finally arrived, both he and my mother entered my room together. The air seemed to grow heavier, the walls closing in as my mother began her lecture. Her voice was calm but laced with disappointment, each word landing like a stone in my chest. In a moment of defiance, I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Whatever,” a word I instantly regretted.
(dramatic pause) My mother’s response was swift and unwavering. “Young man, you have been developing an attitude and today you are going to get an attitude adjustment!” Her words cut through the room, sharp and final. She pulled me up from the bed, sat down, and delivered the hardest spanking of my life. The sting of her hand was nothing compared to the humiliation and the overwhelming sense of having let her down. I tried to hold back the tears, to be stoic, but in the end, I broke down, sobbing like a child. When it was over, I was told to stay in my room for the rest of the evening, the door closing softly behind her.
(pause) In our family, spankings were almost always private, but the aftermath was never a secret. The house would grow quiet, the other children moving softly, casting sympathetic glances but never speaking of it directly. There was a silent solidarity among us, a shared understanding of what it meant to be on the receiving end of discipline.
(short pause) The next morning, sunlight streamed through my window, and the ache in my heart was matched only by the lingering sting. Liz slipped into my room, her presence gentle and comforting. She sat beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder, and told me she was sorry for what had happened. It was then she revealed that Heather had been there the whole time—and that they had heard everything.
(pause) Embarrassment flooded me, my cheeks burning as I imagined Heather, quiet and polite, overhearing my humiliation. But Liz reassured me, her voice soft and understanding. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Heather’s not going to say anything. She was spanked herself just six months ago—for shoplifting. She knows what it’s like.” In the late 70s, spankings were still common, a rite of passage for many children, but that didn’t make the experience any less isolating.
(pause) As the years passed, the memory of that day faded but never disappeared. My relationship with Liz grew stronger—she became not just a sister, but a confidante, someone who understood the unspoken rules of our family and the weight of our parents’ expectations. Heather, too, became a more significant part of my life. We grew closer, our shared experiences forging a quiet bond.
(pause) When Heather and I eventually became boyfriend and girlfriend, the memory of that day resurfaced in an unexpected way. One afternoon, as we sat together in a sun-dappled park, she brought up the spanking she’d overheard. I felt the old embarrassment rise up, but Heather only smiled, her eyes kind. She told me about her own last spanking—how her father had sat her down in her room, how she’d tried to be brave but ended up in tears, just like me. There was a strange comfort in her honesty, a sense of being seen and understood.
(pause) Heather admitted that when she heard my spanking, she’d wanted nothing more than to comfort me, to let me know I wasn’t alone. In that moment, she reached for my hand, her fingers warm and steady. We sat in silence for a while, the past hanging between us like a fragile thread. Then, quietly, we kissed—a gentle promise that, whatever happened, we would face it together.
(long pause) Looking back, those moments of discipline and reconciliation shaped not just my childhood, but the person I would become. But I can’t help but wonder if, in their efforts to keep us obedient and childlike, our parents sometimes held us back from growing up and thinking for ourselves. Their hands may have been the only tools they used, but the real lesson was about control—and the slow, sometimes painful journey toward independence.
