Every summer, my family would pack up our things and make the long drive to my grandmother’s house on the rugged coast of Maine. The house itself was perched just above the crashing waves, its white picket fence weathered by salty breezes and years of laughter. The scent of the ocean always greeted us before we even stepped out of the car, mingling with the faint aroma of wild roses that grew along the fence line. It was a place that felt both wild and safe, where the days stretched long and golden, and the nights were filled with the sound of distant foghorns and the gentle creak of the old house settling.
That particular summer, things were a little different. My mother had arranged for a sitter to look after me and my younger sister for two weeks, since our usual nanny was away on her own vacation. I remember feeling a mix of excitement and resentment—excited for the freedom of summer, but annoyed at the idea of a stranger telling me what to do in my own grandmother’s house. The sitter arrived on a bright, breezy afternoon, her arms full of books and games, her smile a little too eager. She tried her best to make us feel comfortable, but I was determined to test her patience from the very start.
I made life difficult for her in every way I could think of. Whenever she asked me to do something—set the table, pick up my toys, eat my dinner—I would simply ignore her, pretending not to hear. One evening, as she was setting the table for dinner, I quietly unscrewed the top of the salt shaker, stifling a giggle as I imagined what would happen next. Later, when she caught me sneaking a piece of candy before dinner and told me to spit it out, I glared at her and snapped, “No! You can’t make me!” I felt a strange thrill at defying her, as if I was claiming a little piece of power for myself.
That night, as we all sat around the dinner table, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. The sitter reached for the salt shaker, and as she tried to sprinkle some on her food, the lid flew off, dumping a mountain of salt onto her plate. Her face turned red with anger and embarrassment, and she shot me a look that could have melted ice. I tried to hide my smirk, but inside I was both nervous and exhilarated.
Just then, the front door creaked open and my mother walked in, her arms full of groceries and her face tired from a long day at work. She paused in the doorway, instantly sensing the tension in the room. The sitter, her voice trembling with frustration, told my mother everything I had done—every act of defiance, every little trick. I felt my stomach drop as I realized the fun was over.
My mother set down her bags and walked over to me, her expression stern but calm. She lifted me gently out of my chair and announced that I was going to be punished, and that the sitter would stay and watch. My cheeks burned with shame and fear, but I tried to stand tall, refusing to let her see how scared I was.
She made me stand in front of her, her voice low and steady as she lectured me about respect and kindness. She told me to apologize to the sitter, but I stubbornly shook my head, my pride refusing to let me back down. The room felt heavy with silence, everyone waiting to see what I would do.
My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Since you will not apologize, you will get it harder,” she said, her voice firm. She added that I would be grounded for the entire weekend—no beach, no games, no exploring the tide pools with my sister. The weight of her words settled over me like a cold blanket.
With a deep breath, my mother told the sitter to sit and watch. I could feel the sitter’s eyes on me as my mother pulled me over her knee. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I could see the disappointment in my mother’s face, and for a moment, I wished I could take back every stubborn word and every little trick. But it was too late.
The spanking began, sharp and swift, each smack echoing in the quiet room. At first, I tried to hold back my tears, biting my lip and clenching my fists, but the sting quickly became too much. I cried out, my voice cracking as the pain and humiliation washed over me. Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrollable, and I begged her to stop, promising over and over that I was sorry. My mother’s hand was steady and unyielding, her resolve clear in every motion. She wasn’t angry—her voice was calm, almost sad, as she reminded me between each smack why I was being punished. She told me that respect and kindness mattered, that my actions had hurt someone who was only trying to help. The words stung almost as much as the spanking itself, and I felt a deep ache of regret settle in my chest.
When it was finally over, my mother set me on my feet, my legs trembling and my face burning with tears and humiliation. She made me stand in the corner, facing the wall, so I could think about what I had done. The minutes dragged on, each second stretching into what felt like an eternity—though it was probably only thirty minutes. I could hear the muffled sounds of my sister and the sitter in the next room, and I felt utterly alone, my pride shattered and my heart heavy with remorse.
Afterward, my mother turned to the sitter and told her that she had permission to discipline me if I misbehaved again. I saw a wave of relief wash over the sitter’s face, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since she’d arrived.
The very next day, I tested those boundaries again. The sitter told me to take a bath, and I flatly refused, crossing my arms and digging in my heels. She warned me, but I didn’t listen. This time, she followed through—she pulled me over her knee and spanked me, her hand just as firm as my mother’s.
The moment was both shocking and surreal. I remember the way the light filtered through the bathroom window, casting golden stripes across the old tile floor. My heart hammered in my chest as the sitter, her face set with determination but also a hint of nervousness, guided me over her lap. But as I lay there, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a strange sense of unfamiliarity. This wasn’t my mother—this was someone I barely knew, someone whose hands felt different, whose voice didn’t carry the same weight of history and love. The first smack landed with a sharp sting, and I gasped, more from surprise than pain. The sensation was jarring, not just physically but emotionally. I felt a rush of confusion—how could someone who wasn’t my mother do this? Was she allowed? Was it fair? There was a coldness to it, not because the sitter was cruel, but because there was no comfort in the ritual, no unspoken understanding between us. Each smack echoed in the small room, and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment, especially knowing my little sister was just down the hall and could probably hear everything. The sitter’s voice was gentle but firm as she reminded me, “You have to listen. I don’t want to do this, but you left me no choice.” But her words didn’t soothe me the way my mother’s sometimes did. Instead, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and strangely adrift—like I was being punished by a stranger in a place that was supposed to be safe. Tears pricked at my eyes, and I tried to hold them back, but the combination of pain, humiliation, and the realization that I had lost control was overwhelming. When it was over, she let me up, her own hands trembling slightly. I could see the relief and sadness in her eyes—she hadn’t wanted to punish me, but she had done what she felt she must. I slunk away, rubbing my sore bottom, feeling a strange mix of anger, shame, and a grudging respect for her resolve. Later, she told my mother what had happened, her voice steady but a little shaky.
That evening, my mother came into my room, her face serious but not unkind. She asked me why I hadn’t done as I was told, but I couldn’t find the words to explain myself. I just stared at the floor, feeling small and foolish. Without another word, she put me over her knee for another spanking, reminding me that if I continued to disobey, both she and the sitter would not hesitate to discipline me again. This time, the lesson felt even heavier. My mother’s disappointment was clear, but so was her love—she held me close afterward, letting me cry into her shoulder, and told me she wanted me to grow up to be kind and responsible. The pain faded, but her words stayed with me.
My mother was unwavering in her expectations, and over the next few days, I found myself making several more trips over both her and the sitter’s knees. Each time, I felt a little more humbled, a little more aware of the consequences of my actions. The lessons were hard, but they stuck with me, shaping the way I understood respect, responsibility, and the boundaries that kept our summer adventures safe and happy.
Looking back now, I can almost hear the sound of the waves outside the window as I stood in the corner, the salty air drifting in and mixing with the scent of old wood and summer flowers. Those days were filled with lessons—some learned the hard way, but all wrapped in the warmth and wildness of my grandmother’s summer home.
