Several of your stories reminded me of something that actually happened to me a little over 10 years ago. I was doing some last minute Christmas shopping at our local mall when I stopped into the ladies lounge to freshen up.
As I was finishing up and standing at the sink, touching up my hair, a woman in her early 30s entered the lounge, dragging a loudly whining child of about nine or 10 behind her.
Moving right to the padded bench seated against the far wall, the mother dragged the boy over her knee. Scolding her son for repeatedly misbehaving (and apparently knocking over some sort of merchandise display in one of the stores), she proceeded to spank his jeans-clad bottom.
After eight or nine quick spanks she stopped and set the now-crying boy back on his feet, telling him that he should count himself lucky that they weren’t at home. Had they been, she said, and had she had her hairbrush available, the boy would have been spanked with his pants down until he had ‘something to really cry about’.
At that point, the child did something I’ve never seen a spanked youngster do before – he openly defied his mother, tearfully threatening to call the police and have her arrested. Apparently, from what he said between crying hiccups, this ‘strategy’ came out of something local schools had begun teaching the kids to do.
Naturally, his mother – and the other woman who had been standing next to me observing this whole thing (while we both ostensibly continued to ignore the exchange) – were stunned. And more than a little outraged.
After a moment, during which we three adults just embarrassingly stared at each other, my ‘sink partner’ decisively broke the silence. Rummaging in her purse, she brought out an old-fashioned, traditional wooden hairbrush.
Offering it to the boy’s mother with a smile, she said: “Why not consider this your ‘home away from home’? Oh, and” – she looked at me – “I believe you may even have witnesses who would be willing to confirm that nothing happened that shouldn’t have.” With a smile of my own, I nodded.
Several minutes later, one very contrite boy – now sporting a very well-heated and red bottom – was tearfully pulling up his underpants as his mother returned the borrowed hairbrush, thanking us both for our ‘assistance and support’.
Assuring the mother that her actions had been entirely justified, my fellow observer knelt in front of her son and wiped his tears with a paper towel. Then she told the boy that were he hers – and there was any further naughtiness or talk of calling the police – she would call them herself, have them come out and spank his bare backside with a big leather belt until he couldn’t sit down.
Looking up at the boy’s mother, she then smilingly asked if she’d like police phone number. The mother asked her son if that would be necessary and being assured that it would not, she smilingly declined.
Indeed, when mother and son finally departed a moment or two later, it was clear that the traditional parental ‘understanding’ between mother and son had been re-established.
And from the way he was still rubbing the seat of his pants as he left, I very much doubted if that boy would forget that ‘understanding’ again any time soon – and even less doubt that his mother would ever again have any hesitation in refreshing his memory.