I witnessed my daughter’s disciplining of my grandson the
other day, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Oh, I took plenty of corrective
measures as far as Lacey and Dallas were concerned, but this was different. For
some reason, just being on the sidelines and watching made me anxious and
returned that old familiar knot in my stomach. At the same time, I understood
how both mother and child felt during this tense moment.
Discipline when I was young came in swift, thundering
actions. A warning was given and followed
by a spanking if my attitude didn’t
change. Daddy or Mother would enter the room and grab us one-by-one. They’d
secure a hand around our upper arms and then begin thrashing us. We’d squall
and cry, but all we’d hear is,
“Stop that crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
I always found that confusing. First off, their job was to
administer punishment; my job was to dance in a circle and try to avoid the
blows. Second, I cried because it hurt, and I figured that was why my parents
gave this punishment. If I hadn’t screamed like I were dying, I feared the
spanking would continue forever.
One time, Mother discovered that holes had been cut in a
pair of pajamas-mine. She and Daddy went ballistic, and they questioned which
of us had done it. Somehow, I was designated as the culprit. Before the
spanking began, they told me that I was being punished not because I’d
supposedly cut the pajamas but because I lied about it. Sometime later, about
fifteen years, my brother admitted to Mother that he’d been who’d done the
deed. That was a little too late to save me.
In my younger years, my temper was volatile. When things
happened, I felt as if the top of my head would explode. My anger raged so
strongly that I began to cry, the signal that I didn’t care what happened to me
or what I did. All this angst can be traced back to my having been teased about
being fat and “buck-toothed.”
Mother would catch me in the early stages of a fit. The
punishment was to make me sit in a chair at the kitchen table until she
determined I’d cooled off. I’d pout and be silent for one of the few times in
my life. Eventually, I would calm down, and at that point, she would talk to me
about why I was so mad and how I should handle it.
When we were 13, Daddy died, and Mother was left to ride
herd on us. By then, we were too big to spank, or so we thought. Jim came home
hours late one day during his freshman year. Mother was scared witless about his
well-being. When he walked through the door, she calmly told him to pick out a
belt. Then she walked into our bedroom, laid Jim on the bed, and flogged his
bottom. He wasn’t thinking straight because he came up mouthing off. She laid
him down again and administered more. After the third time, Jim either got the
message or was so weak he was unable to continue.
For most of our discretions in high school, we were
grounded. I couldn’t make better than a “D” in geometry. Mother taught middle
school math and couldn’t understand my poor performance. She grounded me until
my grade came up. That meant going nowhere and doing nothing. After 26 weeks,
she came to me and stated,
“You aren’t going to bring that grade up, are you?”
I told her that I would already have done so if it were
possible. She released me from that punishment, but by then, a story to tell in
my adult years had been created.
I fought battles with Lacey and Dallas about punishment, and
that’s another column for another time. I don’t think I could go through it
again. Today, I sat on the sidelines and thanked God that I no longer needed to
discipline anyone else but myself.
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