During the 1980s, the practice of disciplining children through corporal punishment was becoming less common, yet this was the manner in which my brother Troy and I were brought up. Our mother, having herself been disciplined in the 1950s (unlike our father), naturally assumed the role of disciplinarian in our household. As she did not work outside the home, she was always present to address any lapses in our behaviour.
We were never warned with the phrase, “Wait until your father returns home.” Instead, if either of us misbehaved, Mother addressed the matter immediately. She would place us across her lap, face down, and administer a spanking she deemed appropriate for our actions. The resulting discomfort served as a strong deterrent against future mischief.
Nevertheless, Troy and I, being typical boys, often found ourselves tempted by mischief. Inevitably, we would transgress again, perhaps once a month. I estimate that each of us received approximately a dozen spankings per year.
Generally, I was a contented child, though around the age of ten or eleven, I began to experience changes. Unlike my usually cheerful brother, I would sometimes become sullen and irritable, though not overtly disobedient. The reasons for my behaviour were unclear, and initially, Mother was uncertain how to respond. My moods could persist for days, leading me to withdraw to my room, which caused concern for both my parents and made family life less pleasant.
Eventually, Mother resolved to address the situation. The next time I became withdrawn and irritable, she gently took my hand and led me to the couch in our den. With calm determination, she quietly removed my outer clothing, leaving me in my undergarments, as was customary in our home when discipline was required. I understood what was about to occur, and my heart fluttered with a mixture of apprehension and relief. “Why are you going to punish me?” I asked, my voice trembling. “I have not done anything wrong.”
Her reply was succinct and direct. “Just because.”
She seated herself, placed me across her lap, and with a gentle but firm hand, lowered my undergarments. The cool air tingled against my skin. She then began to spank me with a measured rhythm, her palm landing with a crisp sound in the quiet room. Each spank was purposeful, not cruel, and I could not help but squirm as the sting increased. After perhaps fifteen or twenty spanks, she paused, her hand resting warmly on my back. She stroked my back and legs gently, her touch soothing, as if to remind me that I was loved, even in this moment of correction. “I am not angry with you,” she said softly, “but I am weary of your recent behaviour. I wish to see my cheerful boy return, and perhaps this will help.”
Mother had clearly prepared for this occasion, for she produced her large wooden kitchen spoon, reserved for the most serious matters. She administered a dozen brisk smacks with it, each one sharp but never excessive. She paused to pat me gently before continuing with a round of the ruler, the paddle, and the plastic spatula. Each implement had its own distinct sound and sensation, and the uncertainty heightened my anticipation. I felt a curious blend of discomfort and relief, as though a storm were passing and leaving the air clearer.
For at least the next ten minutes, Mother alternated between soothing me with gentle rubs and delivering firm spanks. The gentle touch was comforting, while the spanks reinforced the lesson. The room was filled with the soft sounds of her voice, the occasional sharp crack, and my own quiet sniffles. At last, she said, “I hope that is sufficient.” She gathered my clothing and, seeing my exhaustion, dressed me herself, as if I were a small child once more. My skin was warm and sensitive, but there was a peculiar comfort in it—I could not decide whether I liked or disliked the sensation, but I felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted.
Mother led me to the kitchen, seated me at the counter, and prepared hot chocolate for us both. She joined me, and we conversed—not about the discipline, but about many things. It was delightful simply to be with her, listening to her gentle voice, and soon our conversation was filled with laughter and smiles.
For the following days, I returned to my cheerful self. The effect endured for weeks, even months. At the time, I did not realise it, but Mother’s “spanking therapy” was precisely what I required to restore my good spirits.
However, eventually, melancholy returned, and once again I found myself in the den, receiving another corrective session. This time, after nearly fifteen minutes, I began to cry—not from pain, but from a sense of emotional release. Mother immediately sensed the change, pulled up my undergarments, and embraced me, demonstrating her love and care.
From that point onward, Mother’s “just because” spankings were always firm enough to leave a lasting impression, but they were also filled with affection. The experience was both painful and comforting, and always succeeded in lifting my spirits for months at a time.
Once Troy and I reached our teenage years, we seldom required discipline, and never in the form of spanking. My “just because” spankings became rare, occurring only once or twice a year, which was sufficient to keep me well-adjusted and content. By the time I attended university in our hometown, I found the idea of being disciplined by Mother somewhat embarrassing, but on the rare occasions when life became overwhelming, I would request her special form of “stress relief,” and she would always oblige.
In my final year, I was courting a wonderful young lady named Jennifer, who was to graduate with me in June. We were most compatible and planned to marry upon receiving our degrees. Yet, I continued to experience occasional periods of stress.
As final examinations approached, I suffered a crisis of confidence. One Saturday afternoon, when the house was empty, I approached Mother to request my special “stress relief.” Once I was over her knee, feeling the effects of the kitchen spoon, I anticipated that I would soon feel better.
However, after nearly twenty minutes, I remained restless and agitated. I could not achieve the sense of release that usually followed such discipline. I asked Mother, with some embarrassment, for firmer and swifter strokes with her largest paddle. The paddle was broad and heavy, and each swat landed with a resounding sound. The sensation was sharp, but there was comfort in the regular rhythm, as if each spank was dispelling my worries. Mother’s face was kind and resolute, her actions measured and never angry. She paused occasionally to rub my back and speak softly, encouraging me to let go of my troubles.
At that moment, I heard the den door open and Jennifer entered. She was astonished by what she saw. I later learned she had decided to visit unexpectedly. She was unaware of my “therapy” arrangement with Mother, or even that I had ever been disciplined in this manner.
Mother, facing away from the door, did not see Jennifer enter. She was administering the paddle, and the sound was unmistakable. I realised that my future plans might be in jeopardy, fearing Jennifer would not be able to accept what she had witnessed.
Yet, having come so far, I felt a desperate need for completion. Mother must have sensed my distress and continued with determination, which brought about a profound emotional release—the most intense and cathartic experience I had ever known.
However, when I saw Jennifer’s expression as she turned and left the room, I feared I might never see her again.
