Most people have no idea just how absurd and dramatic my childhood could be, especially when it came to the subject of babysitters. My mother, a woman of strict principles and a flair for the theatrical, always seemed to find new ways to teach me lessons—sometimes in ways that felt more like elaborate performances than simple discipline. Even before Mildred entered the picture, the air in our small, cluttered living room was thick with tension and the faint scent of furniture polish. I could sense that something was brewing, a storm of consequences gathering just for me.
That particular day, the world outside was bright and humming with the sounds of summer, but inside, I was already in deep trouble. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood in the middle of the room, my hands clenched into sweaty fists. I had just broken a window—shattered glass glinting on the carpet—after a reckless game of ball inside the house. But that wasn’t the only reason my mother was furious. I’d spent the entire morning whining and complaining, my voice echoing off the walls, about being left with Mildred, the babysitter. I remember the words tumbling out of my mouth, sharp and petulant: “Why do I have to stay with her? She’s so boring! She’s so big! It’s not fair!” I felt trapped, abandoned by my mother who was going out with her new boyfriend—a man I’d never even met, but already resented.
My mother, always trying to keep her patience, kept insisting that I was lucky to have someone as kind as Mildred to look after me. But I was having none of it. I sulked in the corner, arms crossed, muttering under my breath about how unfair life was. I even made snide remarks about Mildred’s size, her plainness, and how she seemed to suck all the fun out of the room. Looking back, I cringe at how cruel I was, but at the time, I was too wrapped up in my own misery to care. That was the final straw for my mother. Her face hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew I had crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
So there I was, standing on the precipice of punishment, my mother’s hand poised in the air, when the doorbell rang. The sound cut through the tension like a knife, and for a brief moment, I felt a flicker of hope—maybe, just maybe, I’d be spared.
My mother shot me a warning glance, her eyes narrowing. “That must be the babysitter—don’t you dare move!” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. I stood frozen, my cheeks burning with shame and fear. Moments later, she returned, and behind her was Mildred, looming in the doorway like a figure from a different era.
Mildred was the embodiment of late 60s averageness. She wore a faded floral dress that hung awkwardly on her frame, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was plain, almost forgettable, except for the tired lines etched around her mouth and eyes. She worked at the marzipan factory in town, her hands always smelling faintly of almonds and sugar. Babysitting for my mother was just a way to save a little extra money for her upcoming wedding to Frank, a man so dull that his favorite color was brown. I remember thinking that Mildred and Frank must have been made for each other—two people who seemed to blend into the background of life.
To my utter humiliation, my mother turned to Mildred and announced, “Peter has been a very naughty boy and I was just about to administer his spanking when you arrived. I didn’t realize how late it was, and I won’t have time to whip him. Would you do me a favor and administer it for me?” The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I felt my stomach drop, a cold wave of dread washing over me. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the floorboards and escape the embarrassment of having my punishment handed over like a chore.
(pause) The moment those words left my mother’s mouth, I saw something shift in Mildred. For the first time, her dull eyes sparkled with a strange delight, as if she’d been handed a secret wish. She straightened her back, her entire demeanor transforming from weary to authoritative. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment—a chance to step into the role of strict disciplinarian. Her voice, usually soft and hesitant, became crisp and commanding. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a satisfaction that sent a chill down my spine. “I would be happy to,” she replied, her tone almost eager. My mother instructed her to spank me over her lap, then swept out of the room, leaving me alone with my fate.
As the door clicked shut, Mildred turned to me with a knowing look. “I think this spanking will do you a lot more good with me giving it to you,” she said, her voice tinged with a quiet glee. There was a new energy about her, a sense of purpose that made her seem larger than life. She seemed to savor the moment, drawing it out as if she were savoring a rare treat. Her eyes twinkled with a kind of triumph, and I realized that she was relishing the opportunity to be in charge, to enforce the rules with a firm hand.
She sat down on the straight-backed chair my mother had just vacated, her posture rigid and unyielding. She patted her lap and called me over, her gaze never leaving mine. I felt my face flush with embarrassment, my feet dragging as I approached. The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls closing in as I climbed awkwardly over her lap. I could feel her eyes on me, studying my every move, and I wished I could vanish.
Mildred raised her hand and began to spank me, each smack slow and deliberate. She paused between each one, letting the sting settle in before delivering the next. But this was no ordinary punishment. With every slap, she delivered a lecture, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Peter, you must learn to respect your elders,” she said, her words punctuated by the sound of her hand meeting my skin. “Whining and sulking will get you nowhere in life.” Another stinging smack landed, and she continued, “You are not to speak rudely about people who are here to help you. Do you understand?” Her tone was strict, almost teacherly, and she made sure I was listening, pausing after each sentence to let the lesson sink in. “If you want to be treated like a big boy, you must act like one. Good behavior is expected at all times, especially when your mother is away.” Each rule was emphasized with a measured smack, her voice rising slightly to drive the point home. “I will not tolerate cheek, sulking, or any more of your nonsense. If you step out of line, you’ll answer to me, and I assure you, I won’t hesitate to deal with you properly.” The fire in my bottom built steadily, but Mildred seemed to be enjoying the process, almost as if she were demonstrating her new authority for an invisible classroom. Each smack was deliberate, and she watched my reactions with the careful attention of a teacher marking a test, her words echoing in my ears long after the spanking ended.
When she finally stood me up, Mildred’s face was flushed with a quiet satisfaction. She looked at me with a mixture of sternness and pride, as if she had just completed an important task. “Go to your room until you can be a good boy,” she instructed, her voice now carrying the unmistakable confidence of someone who had just won a small, private victory. I shuffled away, my pride wounded and my backside stinging, but a strange sense of clarity settling over me.
(short pause) But before I could escape, Mildred fixed me with a stern look, her national health spectacles perched low on her nose. She cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and began to lecture me about the standard of behavior she expected while she was in charge. Her voice was crisp and measured, every word enunciated as if she were reading from a rulebook. She peered down at me through those thick lenses, making me feel even smaller than I already did. “Now, Peter,” she said, “while your mother is out, I expect you to behave yourself—no cheek, no sulking, and certainly no more whining. If you step out of line, you’ll answer to me, and I assure you, I won’t hesitate to deal with you properly.” Her gaze was unwavering, her authority absolute. She made it clear that she intended to enforce her rules with the same strictness she’d just demonstrated. All the while, she looked at me over the top of her spectacles, as if daring me to test her resolve.
(pause) Looking back now, I can still feel the confusion and resentment that swirled inside me that day. Mildred seemed so strict, so unyielding, and I couldn’t understand why she took her job so seriously. I remember lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with questions and indignation. Why did she care so much? Why did she seem to enjoy being in charge? But as the hours passed and the sting faded, a new understanding began to take root. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that Mildred was, in her own way, a good sort. She never set out to harm anyone—she simply believed in rules and order, and she wanted the best for the children in her care. Her methods were strict, but her intentions were pure. She certainly had an effect on me. After that day, I was a lot better behaved whenever she babysat. Maybe I was a little wary, but I also respected her, and I knew exactly where I stood. In the end, Mildred’s firm hand taught me more than just obedience—it taught me that sometimes, the people who seem the strictest are the ones who care enough to help you grow up right. And as I grew older, I realized that those lessons, delivered with a sting and a stern word, were some of the most valuable I ever received.
