As a child of the 1970s, I was the product of many spankings. Although I wasn’t a bad kid, my bottom felt the sting of a hand or hairbrush at least a dozen times a year.
Since my father travelled a great deal during his climb up the corporate ladder, my mother tended to the backsides of her two children. Although I have erased most of my spankings from my memory, there is one that really stands out.
It occurred when I was about 11 years old. It was summer, and my friends and I decided we wanted to go fishing in a local pond near our subdivision. Unfortunately, my mom wouldn’t let me go. Although I could swim and the pond wasn’t that deep, she didn’t think it was a good place for children to hang out since the older kids went their to smoke, drink and do other things.
However, I snuck off anyway. Of course, she found out and came and took me away, kicking and screaming. In the car on the way back home, she told me not to make any plans for the rest of the week. At first I thought I got off light.
Once home, I found out my bottom wasn’t gone to be spared. We had hardly walked in the door before she pulled me into the living room. After a brief lecture, she told me she thought a spanking was long overdue. Despite my protests, without effort she pulled me over her knee, bared my bottom and quickly went to work on reminding me who was boss.
In seconds I was crying and pleading for mercy. The spanking didn’t last that long, but the worst part about it was my sister came into the room when she heard my screams. I never went back to the pond without my mother’s permission, but it wasn’t the last spanking I received.