I grew up in the 70s, in a surprisingly conservative and ‘Cleaver-like’ home for the times. There were five of us – all girls. My dad was in the military and away much of the time, and my mother a young housewife.
Despite the ever-growing progressive parenting methods, both of my parents were staunch believers in a good hard spanking when any one of us girls deserved it.
My first memory of a maternal spanking (and most of them did come from my mother, although I did get a few nice ones from my daddy) was when I was about three years old and my twin baby sisters had just been born.
As I recall, my tired mother had just put the twins down for a nap in their cribs and shut the door on the nursery, forbidding my older sisters and I from going in there. Of course, forbidden fruit is the best kind.
So anyway, my five-year-old sister Mary and I were in the den watching television when I took away the doll she was playing with. Of course, Mary protested, and quite loudly at that.
My mother came from the kitchen and warned us that if we made too much noise, she was going to give us a ‘slapping’, as she called it, which was not as severe a term as a spanking but still feared by a child who had yet to receive anything but a slap on the hands now and again.
Mary said: “I don’t care that you took my dolly, I’m just going to go get yours and then I won’t give it to you at all.” She spoke in a screaming whisper and got up to make good on her threat.
As she started walking towards my bedroom, and not knowing that she thought the doll was in my room and not in the nursery, I screamed and ran in front of her to protect my precious plaything. Without thinking, I slammed into the nursery and grabbed Mary, saying loudly: “You can’t have my dolly!”
Before I even knew it, both of the babies were awake and crying loudly. My mother rushed into the room. She sent me to wait in her bedroom while she got the babies back to sleep. Mary, of course, had disappeared as soon as she saw me go into the nursery.
It did not take my mother long to get my sisters back to sleep, and she quickly came into her room to deal with me. I was crying by this point, feeling sure that Mommy was very mad at me, but not really knowing what to expect.
Determinedly, she walked over to me and sat me up on the bed. “Trisha, you know that you were not to go into the nursery. You also were fighting with your sister after I warned you. You are going to have a spanking.”
I had never been so scared in my life. I had seen my older sisters get spankings and their bottoms always turned so red and they cried so hard.
My mother went over to her vanity and pulled out a chair, then came over and picked me up from the bed. She sat down and stood me in front of her, reaching under my little dress to pull down my panties. In our family, all spankings were on the bare bottom.
She quickly and rather harshly put me over her knees and raised my dress so that my helpless little bottom was exposed to her hand. Then the spanking began. “Didn’t I (spank) warn you about (spank) waking up your sisters and (spank) fighting with Mary?”
By this time, I was already crying. “You have been a (spank) naughty little girl and you are going to remember this spanking! (spank)” Then she became quiet and just spanked me thoroughly.
Finally, she let up and asked me if I was ever going to do that again. Through my tears, I told her it was all Mary’s fault. Wrong answer, because over her knees I went again. Spank, spank, spank! I think I got about 20 swats on my bottom that day and I was sobbing uncontrollably after she was finished.
Mom sent me to the room I shared with Mary and Kelly, my other older sister, to stand in the corner. As I was standing there, I heard her go into the living room, grab an unsuspecting Mary by the arm and give her about 10 mighty whacks because she had seen that Mary was a part of it too. Pretty soon Mary joined me, rubbing her sore bottom, to stand in the corner.