My Nana—my mother’s mother—raised a big family: five sons and two daughters, with my mother being the youngest of them all.
Over the years, Nana had disciplined her boys plenty, but she never laid a hand on her daughters, including my mother or my aunt. When she looked after me, she’d often remind me that naughty boys got spanked.
She never directly warned me about getting a spanking, but she’d often share little parables about a make-believe girl named Nancy, who always seemed to get herself into trouble and end up over her nana’s knee.
Still, I never really believed my grandmother would ever actually spank me. She always said I was her favorite grandchild—her special boy. She’d even forgiven me for some pretty outrageous mischief, like the time I locked her in the basement.
But then came a weekend when I was especially unruly while she was babysitting. Eventually, Nana told me she’d be telling my parents about my bad behavior when they got home.
She finally said, “Eddie, go get ready for bed—I’ve had enough of you today.” Hearing her say that made it clear just how frustrated she was with me.
I went to take my bath, and as I soaked, I realized that if Nana told my parents, I’d be in for a painful punishment. I started scheming and came up with what I thought was a clever plan: if I asked Nana to spank me herself, she probably wouldn’t do it, but she’d see I was sorry and maybe not tell my parents.
And even if she did go through with it, I figured it would be easier than facing my mother or father—after all, Nana was just a little old lady. I felt pretty smug, thinking I’d found the perfect way out.
After my bath, I dried off, put on my pajamas, and went to Nana’s room. She was lying on her bed, reading her Bible, as she often did.
She didn’t look thrilled to see me, but asked, “Eddie-boy, are you ready for bed?” I walked up to her and, in my sweetest voice, said, “Nana, I’m really sorry for being bad. Maybe you should…spank me.” I was hoping she’d just forgive me and give me a hug.
But that’s not what happened. Nana got up from her bed and simply said, “Alright, if that’s what you want.” She stacked her pillows in the middle of the bed, one on top of the other. I was completely baffled.
She gently took my hand, helped me onto the bed, and had me straddle the pile of pillows like I was riding a horse. Then, softly, she pressed my shoulders down.
(pause) I watched in disbelief as Nana walked over to her dresser and picked up her old wooden hairbrush—the one I’d seen for years. The brush was about the size of a ping-pong paddle, with a long handle.
She held the brush up close to my face so I could see it clearly. It looked heavy and well-worn, the back faded from years of use—no doubt on the backsides of misbehaving boys.
(short pause) Nana looked me straight in the eye and said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Then she took her place behind me and started swinging that brush with purpose. She didn’t need to use much force—the weight of the brush did the work.
(pause) The first smack landed with a loud, sharp crack that echoed through the room. I gasped, jolting forward as the sting shot through my thin pajamas. My heart raced, and I gripped the pillows tightly, my knuckles white. Each swat was slow, steady, and thorough. The brush was so big, every smack seemed to cover my whole backside. The pain was instant and fierce, a burning that grew with every hit.
Nana’s face was calm and focused, her lips pressed together. She didn’t hurry, but kept a steady rhythm, raising the brush and bringing it down again and again. I could hear the soft rustle of her dress and the creak of the bed springs between each swat. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the sound of the brush and my muffled cries. I tried to be brave, but after a few smacks, tears filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I buried my face in the pillows, biting my lip to keep from sobbing.
(pause) The pain was sharper than anything I’d ever felt—at first a sting, then a deep, throbbing ache. Each new smack reignited the burn, layering heat on top of heat until my whole backside felt like it was on fire. I lost count after ten, but Nana kept going, slow and steady, making sure I felt every lesson. My legs kicked on their own, and I squeezed the pillows tighter, desperate for comfort. The spanking seemed endless, every second dragging on as I waited for it to stop.
(short pause) At last, after what felt like forever, Nana stopped. She rested her warm hand on my burning skin, leaving it there in silence. The contrast between the sting of the brush and her gentle touch was almost too much. My heart pounded, my breath shaky. Her touch was both soothing and a reminder of what had just happened—a silent bond between us in that moment.
Unlike when my parents spanked me and I’d leap up as soon as it was over, I stayed put, crying quietly. Nana left me there for a while and went to the kitchen to cook—something other than my behind, thankfully.
As I lay there, my sore bottom in the air, a flood of thoughts ran through my mind. If Nana could spank that hard when I admitted my wrongdoing, how much worse would it be if she decided to do it on her own? How could someone so small hit so hard and for so long? She must have known I was trying to trick her and decided to teach me a real lesson.
But the biggest realization was this: “Nana must have wanted to do this for a long time, for all the times I’d misbehaved—not just today. I really need to stop being a troublemaker.”
Eventually, Nana returned and softly told me it was bedtime. I rolled off the pillows, and she gently helped me up and walked me to my bed. She let me lie on my stomach and tucked the covers over me. “Goodnight, Eddie,” she whispered. “I hope you’ll be a good boy for me now.”
I lay awake for a while, unable to sleep because my bottom was still throbbing. Then I remembered something my mother once said: the longer and harder someone spanks you, the more they love you. Nana had always told me how much she loved me, and that day, I guess, she proved it.
My backside was still sore the next day, so I didn’t run around or play much. Instead, I helped Nana with chores while we waited for my parents to pick me up, and I was on my very best behavior.
When my parents came back, Nana told them firmly, right in front of me, “I had to spank Eddie last night because he was very naughty.” She sounded like she was still upset, and didn’t mention that I’d apologized. My parents nodded approvingly, and my mother looked so angry I was afraid she might give me another spanking herself.
The next morning, when my mother made me take a bath, she made sure I undressed in front of her while she filled the tub. I turned my back, embarrassed, and she got a good look at my bruised bottom. Later, she told me it was black and blue from Nana’s brush. Unlike the time my aunt spanked me for smoking, this time my mother didn’t feel the need to do it again.
Not long after, at a family gathering, Nana told my two uncles about spanking me, and they knew exactly what that meant. They described it in detail to my mother, who was too young to remember it happening at home. Nana added that my bottom was so red, my briefs looked pink when she was done.
One uncle asked, “Where did she do it?” “In her bedroom,” I answered. “Did you have to lie on the pillows, and did she use the brush?” I nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Well, congratulations, Eddie,” he said. “You’re now a member of the ‘Big Boy Paddled Club’!”
At the time, Nana was 67, and it had been 35 years since she’d last spanked one of her own kids. It was as if the years melted away, and that tiny, loving woman gave me the hardest spanking she’d ever given.
I definitely learned my lesson and never needed another spanking from Nana—or anyone else—after that. The whole experience felt like a rite of passage; I felt more grown up afterward. Later, when a friend asked, “Who spanks harder, your mother or your father?” I answered without hesitation: “Grandma!”
Nana kept that brush on her dresser for years after my introduction to it. Every time I saw it, I remembered every second of that unforgettable lesson.
