When my sister and I were younger, our mother would sometimes discipline us with a light spanking. Though the experience was not pleasant, it was never truly painful, and we would often shed a few tears and then carry on as before.
As we grew older, however, these mild punishments seemed to lose their effect, and our mother, feeling rather at a loss, sought the advice of our grandmother during one of her visits. Grandmother was quite shocked to hear of our mother’s gentle approach and insisted that it must be changed at once.
One evening, Grandmother called my sister and me into the sitting room, where Mother was already waiting. She explained that it was time for us to understand what proper discipline entailed, and that she would demonstrate to Mother how it ought to be done. I felt a wave of apprehension at her words and the serious expression on her face.
To my dismay, Grandmother took hold of us and instructed us to place our hands behind our backs. She explained to Mother that, regardless of age, discipline should always be administered in a correct and orderly fashion.
Grandmother then picked up a sturdy, wooden hairbrush and tapped it thoughtfully against her hand. She told Mother that hand spankings were quite ineffective, and that a proper hairbrush was necessary to make a lasting impression on children of our age.
At this, I became rather anxious, and my sister began to weep softly as Grandmother continued, explaining that all smacks should be firm and that pleas and tears should not deter the one administering discipline.
Without further ado, she took my sister by the arm and led her to the couch. My sister looked quite frightened as she was placed over Grandmother’s lap, and Mother was instructed to hold her arms to keep her still.
Grandmother tapped my sister’s bottom a few times and told her she was about to learn what a proper spanking felt like. Then, she raised the hairbrush and brought it down firmly, again and again, in the same spot. My sister cried out and kicked her legs, but Grandmother was unmoved.
My sister looked up at Mother, pleading for mercy, but Mother simply told her that the lesson had only just begun, and that she must learn from it.
The brisk, steady smacks continued, and soon my sister’s cries grew hoarse. Her bottom turned from pink to red, and then to a deep crimson. The punishment lasted several minutes, and by the end, my sister was quite exhausted and could scarcely make a sound.
At last, Grandmother stopped and allowed my sister to stand. “That is how a proper spanking is given,” she declared. My sister sobbed and tried to ease the pain, hopping from foot to foot.
I pleaded not to be punished, but Grandmother said that I had long deserved this lesson. I was placed over her lap, and Mother held my wrists as she had done with my sister. She told me gently but firmly that it was time I learned to behave.
I felt the hairbrush tap my bottom, and then the sharp sting as the spanking began in earnest. It was more painful than anything I had ever experienced, and I soon found myself crying and begging for it to stop. My struggles were in vain, and the punishment continued for what felt like an eternity.
Tears streamed down my face, and I began to hiccup as I wept, but Grandmother did not relent. At last, the spanking ended, and I stood, rubbing my sore bottom and crying quietly beside my sister.
Then Grandmother announced that it was Mother’s turn to try. Both my sister and I began to cry again, begging not to be punished further. Mother, however, did not heed our pleas. She picked up the hairbrush, tapped it against her hand, and took my sister over her lap.
Mother brought the brush down upon my sister’s lower bottom, and Grandmother encouraged her to be firmer. With each smack, my sister’s cries grew louder, and I feared for her.
Again and again, the brush landed in the same spot before Mother moved to another. When the brush struck my sister’s thighs, her cries became even more desperate, and she thrashed about on Mother’s lap. Eventually, she could cry no more and simply lay there, her face contorted in pain.
At last, Grandmother said, “That will do for now. But if they break the rules again, you must continue a little longer.” My sister slowly rose to her feet.
Then it was my turn once more. I was terribly frightened as Mother placed me over her lap and Grandmother held my wrists.
The sitting room was filled with the gentle tick-tock of the clock upon the mantelpiece, and the golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting dappled patterns upon the carpet. My heart beat quickly as Mother, her face calm but resolute, slipped off her house slipper and beckoned me forward. There was a hush in the room, broken only by the faint rustle of her skirt and the nervous shifting of my feet upon the rug.
I glanced at my sister, who peered anxiously from behind the doorway, her handkerchief pressed to her lips. Mother seated herself in the sturdy armchair, and with a gentle but firm hand, guided me across her lap. The slipper felt cool and unfamiliar as she tapped it lightly against her palm, her eyes meeting mine with a look that was both loving and determined.
“This is for your own good, my dear,” she said softly, and then, with a swift motion, brought the slipper down upon my bottom. The sound was a sharp, echoing thwack, not so much painful as startling, and I gasped in surprise. The slipper landed again, and again, each time accompanied by a crisp sound and a growing warmth that made my eyes sting with unshed tears.
I tried to be brave, biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut, but the sting of the slipper and the knowledge that I had disappointed Mother made my heart ache far more than my bottom. The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds the steady rhythm of the slipper and the ticking of the clock.
At last, Mother stopped. She set the slipper aside and helped me to my feet, her arm slipping gently around my shoulders. My face was flushed, and I rubbed my bottom ruefully, but there was a curious sense of relief, as though a storm had passed and the air was clear once more. Mother pressed a kiss to my forehead and told me she loved me, and I knew, deep down, that all was forgiven.
My sister crept from her hiding place, her eyes wide, and together we went to our room, the lesson learned and the day moving quietly on, the sunlight still warm and the world, somehow, a little brighter.
