All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned From a Spanking

I think of myself as being a pretty good kid growing up. I get this idea through the fact that one of my brothers was a real pain in the butt (and he knows who he is), so the mischief I got myself into was pretty mild. Well, except for when I broke mom's heart and eloped with a man she couldn't stand, but that's another story.

I was the youngest, and the only girl, so I got special attention. The special attention from my brothers included sending me down a hill in a stroller when I was a toddler, an arrow to the back of my head, and chopping up my walking doll with an ax. Those are just a few of the things--I'm sure there were others. The special attention I got from my mother was a whole lot more loving and kind, even though she was not, and still is not, a demonstrative, affectionate person. I learned how to be a strong woman, to work hard and to give your kids the gift of time. I have so many memories of mom going sliding with us and taking us to a great shallow lake called Fitzgerald Pond where the deer flies were the size of hummingbirds, and in particular, taking just me to Old Orchard Beach for a weekend. For a single woman, raising four children without much help, that was huge.

We had a great uncle who visited often, who made quite an impression on me. He was kind of smelly and had a hairlip, so was very hard to understand. One time, he brought mom an old typewriter he'd picked up at a yardsale and she was tickled pink with it. I was at least in my early teens, so when she told me "hands off!!!" I knew what that meant. However, my desire to be a writer got the best of me, so the next day after she went to work, I went to work to find where she'd hidden the typewriter. I found it, and debated only a moment before opening the hinges and taking it out of the case. Now I consider myself a smart girl, but I was also a teenager so my common sense was not available to me for a few years; I sat it on the arm of my chair and began typing.

I was doing so well finding the keys I wanted and I knew writing was the career for me. The smart clack of the keys and the smell of the inked tape was seeping into my soul--until I pressed the "return" key. The delicate balance of the machine completely shifted and the typewriter crashed to the floor, bending the carriage and two of the keys. I fiddled with it, hoping against all hope that my Superwoman strength could bend back the steel to its previous position, but it was soon obvious that I wasn't going to be able to cover up this mistake. I set it back in the box, clicked the hinges back in place and put it back where mom had hidden it.

I felt like such a shit all day. I knew better, but I did it anyway--touched something mom had told me to stay away from. Not only that, but I had broken it, and I knew it was something she thought was, as my grandmother would say, just the cat's meow.

I wasn't myself all day. I spent most of the day in my bed, thinking about how upset mom would be, and rightfully so. Should I tell her as soon as she came home or should I wait until she discovered it? Could I pretend I had nothing to do with it? Should I run away? I debated every possible scenario in my brain and then heard her car pull into the driveway. I simply cowered under my blankets, knowing this was not going to end well.

Wouldn't you know it? She put down her purse and went directly to the typewriter's hiding place. Within a few minutes, her footfalls could be heard on the stairs, leading to my room. I started crying.

"What happened to the typewriter?" she asked as she pulled a chair up to my bed's side.

"I broke it. I'm sorry." I sobbed. I truly was.

"I told you not to touch it." she said.

"I know. I just couldn't resist. It fell off the arm of the chair when I hit return." I cried.

She was silent for a few minutes as I cried into my pillow. I wouldn't blame her if she sent me to boarding school or sentenced me to ten years of grounding. I was a miserable kid and deserved whatever I got.

"You're too old for this, but you need an old-fashioned spanking!" she growled. I could hear her anger in her voice, yet felt my sincere apology.

I pushed down the blankets I had pulled over me and offered my backside. She gave me a couple whacks that hurt my dignity much more than my skin.

"I'm sorry, mom." I said as I heard her stand up.

"I am too." she said.

I felt her hand touch my hair softly and then she turned and went back downstairs.

I don't remember any other spankings that I received as a child, although I'm sure there were many; but I sure remember that one. It was the last one and probably the most painful one for me as well as my mother.