To Spank Or Not To Spank

The second spanking recollection I have is actually two different occurrences, both having the same behavior on my part but resulting in two very different outcomes.

Once again, both of us were in trouble for some heinous crime we had conspired and embarked upon together (what exactly that was is beyond my ability to remember, probably due to parent-induced trauma).  As was Mom’s practice at the time, she would send us to our rooms (in this case, both of us in just one of the bedrooms) to “think about what we had done” and await our just punishment. Now, for some kids, that is nothing but a joke (“Sure, Mom, I’ll think about what I’ve done” [That was awesome!].  “I feel horrible about that” [I can’t wait to try that again!!].)  For me, however, that was pure torture.  Sometimes it was five to ten minutes before we would see her, and that was plenty of time for me to cave from the pressure building due to the apprehension of what degree of pain to my rear was imminently in my very near future.  Now, it should be stated here that what she was doing was wise on her part.  It gave her time to cool down and respond to our so-called “bad behavior” correctly.  For us, however, it was like being put in a straight jacket while waiting for our execution.

So, there we were, waiting it out in one of our bedrooms while Mom got a chance to compose herself for who-knows-how-long.  When she finally came into the bedroom, she sat in a chair across the room from the bed we were both sitting on.  She calmly stated that when we were ready, we could walk over to where she was sitting, bend over and receive the two swats to the butt that we had been sentenced to.  I was the first to move (being the older and more responsible sibling, of course) and stopped about halfway across the room.  I stood there looking at her with my big brown puppy-dog eyes and asked in a cute little eight-year-old voice, “Is this going to hurt??”  She couldn’t help but break out in a heart-felt laugh and opened her arms wide for both of us to come over for a big hug.  We both ran into her arms and laughed, probably more out of relief than seeing any humor in it ourselves.  No pain was to be felt that day!

Well, some time later, we were in trouble again.  Same scenario:  We’re biding our time, sitting on the same bed; an empty chair sits across the room, waiting for The Executioner to show up (that chair may as well have been a guillotine with a glistening, razor-sharp blade hanging in the air above it).  Mom walked in the room and once again calmly sat in the chair, waiting for one of us to move.  I moved first (again) and got up from the bed, started across the room and stopped half way–just like I did before.  I looked at her with my puppy-dog eyes and once again repeated the question that worked so well last time (in the same cute voice as before, too), “Is this going to hurt??”

I was met with an icy stare.  Suddenly, that guillotine looked as big as ever.  I instantly knew that whatever pain I didn’t get last time would be more than made up for this time around.  My insides were already  telling me to make a run for it, but I knew that that would be a useless act of escape that would only serve to doom my rear to even more pain and suffering.

As you can see, I endured what I had coming to me that day.  And it taught me a valuable lesson:  never use the same ruse twice in a row.  It’ll backfire every time.

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