Before I get to the story, let me tell you about Mrs Kent’s house. It was an old brick place, built back in the 1920s, with a steep roof and ivy crawling up the walls. The porch creaked under your feet, and the windows always seemed a little foggy, like the house was keeping secrets of its own. (short pause) My name is Peter, and this is the story of Mrs Kent—the strictest babysitter in our neighborhood. (pause) But before I get to my own experiences, it’s important to understand just how much Mrs Kent meant to the families around us. For years, she was the go-to childminder for working parents, a reliable presence in a world where after-school care was hard to come by. Parents trusted her completely; they knew their children would be safe, fed, and watched over with a firm but fair hand. Her reputation for discipline was well-known, but so was her dependability. She never missed a day, never lost her temper in front of adults, and always made sure homework was done before play. (pause) In a neighborhood where most parents worked long hours, Mrs Kent’s house was a lifeline. She offered peace of mind, and her word was as good as gold. (pause) Mrs Kent was a spinster in her seventies, and most of the time she came across as a kindly lady—soft-spoken, with a gentle smile and a twinkle in her eye. But everyone knew that, at the drop of a hat, she could switch to having a fearsome temper. She watched over many children whose parents worked late, mostly because she didn’t charge much. But her real reputation was for good old-fashioned discipline, and spankings were a regular part of her routine. (short pause) I’d seen it with my own eyes—once, she pulled a girl over her knee right in front of us and gave her a proper spanking. From that day on, I made sure to behave whenever I was in her care.
I was terrified of spankings as a child—at home, it almost never happened, so the idea of being punished by Mrs Kent was even scarier. But one afternoon, I made a mistake. Instead of going straight to her house after school, I played outside with friends until well after four o’clock.
I replied: “I’m sorry, Mrs Kent.” In the 70s, you did not use adult’s first names. Mrs Kent gave me a stern look, walked up to me, took me by the arm and said: “You come with me.”
She led me into the dining room, sat down on the seat, positioned me to her right.
I was already crying when she put me over her knee.. I think I received around 10 hard smacks with Mrs Kents hand. Afterwards, I had to wait in the bedroom until my mom picked me up.
I begged my mom not to let Mrs Kent babysit me anymore and my mom got so tired of my whining that she almost gave me another spanking that night.
Mrs Kent ended up spanking me one more time, about nine months later. That second time, it was a rainy Saturday afternoon, and I’d been cooped up inside her house for hours. Boredom got the better of me, and I started roughhousing with her cat, chasing it around the living room and knocking over a vase in the process. The crash was loud enough to bring Mrs Kent in from the kitchen, her face thunderous. She didn’t yell, but her disappointment was worse than any shouting. She simply pointed to the mess and said, “You know better, Peter.” (pause) The living room felt even smaller than usual, the rain tapping against the windows, the air heavy with tension. The furniture was plain and practical—a faded armchair, a small table, and that same old rug—but in that moment, it felt like a stage set for my humiliation. Mrs Kent moved the armchair to the center of the room, her movements slow and deliberate, and sat down with a sigh. She patted her lap, and I felt my stomach drop. My hands shook as I shuffled over, the memory of my first spanking still fresh in my mind. (pause) She took my wrist, her grip firm but not cruel, and guided me across her knees. The fabric of her skirt was scratchy against my skin, and I could smell the faint scent of lavender and old furniture polish. My heart hammered in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for what I knew was coming. (pause) The anticipation was excruciating—every second seemed to stretch out, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. I could feel her shift beneath me, steadying herself, and then her hand came down with a sharp, echoing smack. The sting was immediate, a hot bloom of pain that made me gasp. She didn’t rush; each smack landed with measured force, the sound of her hand against me filling the quiet room. (pause) By the third or fourth smack, my legs started to kick, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The pain built with every strike, sharp and bright, until I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I sobbed into the crook of my arm, my face burning with shame. (pause) She kept count, her arm holding me steady, not unkind but unyielding. Seven, eight, nine—each one a fresh wave of heat and humiliation. By the time she reached twelve, I was limp across her lap, my body aching and my pride in tatters. (pause) When she finally let me up, I could barely stand, my legs trembling and my backside throbbing with every heartbeat. I stood there, sniffling, unable to meet her eyes. She told me to sit quietly on the sofa and think about what I’d done. The rain kept falling outside, and I sat there, rubbing my sore bottom, feeling small and chastened. (pause) That second spanking stuck with me just as much as the first—the lesson, and the sting, lasting long after the pain faded.
Growing up in the seventies, everyone in the neighborhood knew: if you misbehaved at Mrs Kent’s, you’d answer for it. And for me, those memories of her strict discipline have stuck with me ever since. But for the parents, Mrs Kent was more than just a disciplinarian—she was a trusted guardian, a steady hand, and a true pillar of the community.
