A spoonful of discipline

I was nine and was with two of my friends in the kitchen. We were making pancakes and I was showing off, being the youngest of us all, holding my hand close to the pan to show how brave I was and mixing the batter very aggressively – stuff like that.

My Mum saw what was happening – she motioned me over to her and gave me a quick scolding. “You had better start behaving yourself or you’re going to be sorry!”

For a while, I was careful not to do anything naughty but after 10 minutes, Mum went back out into the garden. I didn’t think she could see me, so I went back to showing off again. Unfortunately for me, she plainly saw what was happening through the dining room window.

Mum came back into the kitchen and without a word opened a drawer. She got out the wooden spoon kept for smacking my bottom, gripped my arm tightly and led me to my bedroom.

Once there, she sat on the bed, put the spoon next to her and gripped my wrists, standing me in front of her and scolding me like a much younger child. “You’re a very naughty boy! You know better than that! You must behave in the kitchen – it’s very dangerous!”.

I nodded and pleaded that I had learned my lesson and would never be naughty again. Mum looked at me straight in the eye and replied: “I’m going to make sure of that.”

She pulled me closer to her but kept me standing up, locking my legs between her own. She smacked my bottom over my pants about 10 times before tugging them down to reveal my briefs. She reached for the spoon and began smacking me on my bottom again and again, lecturing between smacks.

I started to cry out and bawl. No doubt my friends (still in the kitchen) were listening, fully aware now that their only slightly younger friend was being smacked just like a little boy.

After delivering the smacks, Mum pulled my pants completely down for me to step out of them, then went out into the kitchen to return the spoon to the drawer and send my friends home.

She returned a few moments later, me still crying heavily and cradling my bottom. She sat on the bed and gestured for me to come over for comfort and I did, hugging her tightly, crying into her shoulder and promising that I would now be a good boy for her.

She rubbed my back until I settled down, reassuring me that I was a ‘good boy, who makes mistakes but is still learning’ and that she still loved me, before guiding me under the blankets for a nap.

It didn’t take long at all for me to fall asleep, as I was always tired out after a smacking, even at nine! I never doubted that my mum loved me and she never gave me more than I deserved. I was smacked with that same spoon well into my teens.

Contributor: Henry

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