Monday, September 15, 2014
For sure, I got spanked, as a child. Though spanked meant spanked, and didn't include any attendant device, such as a switch or a belt. It was a manual operation, and the hand never hit my flesh. Never my face; it was all on the butt, through whatever I happened to be wearing that day.
My mother, when she spanked, would grab my arm, and I'd run around her like a maypole, so she had trouble meeting the intended target, and after awhile gave up, exhausted. If Mom steamed about whatever my transgression might have been that day, then she'd tell my dad, when he returned from work. Dad could hit a target.
My sister, brother, and me -- we didn't have many moments of solidarity; but spanking was one. My sister never got spanked, because she'd swoon. My brother, he took some tush-time, but had the very good sense to scream and repent. They were the smart ones. I took my swats like a soldier, as in, "Is that the best you can do?"
When I was disciplined, usually they wanted me to give up the names of my co-conspirators. Not a chance. At the end of the exercise, the three of us kids would gather together, I'd pull down my pants, to see if we had a perfect five-finger red imprint on my bottom. If so, we'd giggle. "Yeah, I see it."
Which is also funny, because it's not like we lived in the Vanderbilt mansion, where the parents would retreat to the third floor. They must have heard us. And known, I made my siblings laugh.
Outlasting the spanking without a single sound from me, gave me, gave us, a sense of power.
The spankings stopped, entirely, by the time I was about nine years old. I like to think my parents realized we wouldn't recall the cause, only the effect.