Growing Up With Corporal Punishment: My Experience

Recently, a co-worker and I had a conversation about children and discipline.  I don’t recall exactly how the topic came up, but he mentioned something he observed the other day when he was in Wal-Mart.  He said that there was a man there with three young children, approximately 4, 6, and 8 years old.  The children were misbehaving, running around and literally sweeping items off shelves onto the floor.  Opening containers of things and dumping out the contents, among other things.  The man, who seemed to be the father of the kids, said or did nothing to them about their behavior.  Then, a bit later, he happened to be behind them in the checkout line, where they continued to act up, being loud and obnoxious.  The man never once admonished the kids, at least, not in the store.  He may have done so once out of the public eye.  However, it sounds as if it was very apparent they had no respect for him as a parent, much less simply as an adult.

The conversation continued, moving forward with our own experiences in raising our children, and with discussing the discipline we ourselves received when we were children.

I was raised by my parents to respect my elders and to behave in a socially acceptable way.  Not that I always did, mind you.  But if I did not, there were consequences, some light, and some much harsher, depending on my behavior.  My brothers and sisters would attest to this fact, as it applied to them also.

From the time I was about 8 until around age 14, we lived on a farm.  In one of the pastures, where our two Shetland ponies were kept, there was a small pond.  That pond was ringed near completely with willow trees.  Folks, if you’ve never been disciplined with a switch from a willow tree, I highly suggest you try it, just once.  If I did not act appropriately, the discipline administered would vary, depending on my parents’ moods and the severity of my offense.  That discipline, if it was physical, would vary from one of the Hot Wheels racetracks from my toy collection, a wooden spoon, my father’s belt, or his or my mom’s hands, or a switch.  If it were a switch, it was normally determined for me where to get that switch from.  It wasn’t always from the willow tree, but if I was instructed to cut a switch, rest assured that I had better come back with one sufficient to do the corrective action desired.  If it wasn’t, then I would be remanded to cut another one, and the ensuing discipline would be substantially stronger than it would have been, had I come back with a decent tool in the first place.  I don’t recall ever having tested that particular theory, but somehow I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that would be the case.

There were always clues that I had done wrong, which I always picked up on before the punishment was applied.

The process usually went as such:

1. My unacceptable behavior…. Followed by….
2. That ominous foreboding feeling… deep in the pit of my stomach, of “Oops…. I really messed up this time”, which led to….
3. My first name being spoken, or yelled sometimes, followed by my middle name:  “David SCOTT!!!”
4. Insert the all-to-familiar ominous, foreboding feeling again.
5. The obvious clue, which might be along the lines of “What did I tell you to do?”  (Or NOT do, as the case may have been)  or “Where were you?”, “What happened to (fill in the blank)”, “Where is my (fill in the blank again)”.  Pick one, or I’m sure if you try, you could replace the phrase with something from your own imagination, and it would probably have applied as well.
6. More ominous foreboding feelings churning my stomach.
7. If Dad was not home, sometimes Mom would take care of things herself, or if the offense was major enough, the phrase ….. and I hated hearing this one:  “Just wait til your father gets home!”
8. More stomach churning, sometimes lasting for hours, until Dad arrived home, and/or until the proper admonishment was decided upon.  Usually, the more serious the offense, the longer the wait, intensifying the stomach churning.
9. FINALLY…. The expected punishment.  If a switch had to be cut, that was the longest walk EVER…. with my Dad’s pocketknife in hand, to that tree or bush and back to the house.
10. The cool down and talking to.

If I may digress for a bit, a quick story about my Dad’s discipline technique:

If our family went on a trip somewhere, Grandma and Grandpa’s for Sunday dinner, for example, would usually be 45 minutes in the family station wagon.  You know the scenario, maybe you’ve experienced it yourself:  5 kids, (I was the youngest by 8 years, so during those years my brothers and sisters were teenagers… 15-16 years old), if there was discontent between us kids, this was the general course of events:

1. The dispute.
2. No words from Dad.
3. Car pulls over to the side of the road, at which time there would be complete silence in the car.
4. Dad stops the car, gets out and walks to the tree line, cuts a switch and returns to car.
5. Switch is laid upon the dash, car put in drive and we continue down the road.
6. Not another word spoken by any of us kids.

Now back on track…..  You see, each step of the process was more important than the previous, and each was critical to the ultimate success of the corrective action.  It was imperative that I was so nervous about what was coming to me.  It served to reinforce the coming punishment, and that whatever I had done, was wrong.  I was apprehensive because I feared my parents out of respect.  In the end, very shortly afterward, each punishment was always followed by a talk, a hug, and a sincere “I love you”.  Let me make this perfectly clear, I was absolutely NOT abused by my parents, in any way.

….(I make sure to specify my parents, because there was an incident from my older sister Pam, having to do with me, at about 4 years old, being set outside in the snow for about 2 minutes, which she SAYS she doesn’t remember….. oh suuuure, Pam, HAHAHA!  I kid her all the time about that, but to be honest, I probably deserved it.  I was known from time to time as a child, to have a temper tantrum or two)

Sure, I had a few welts (on my backside, of course) from a switch, or a hand or something.  But it was never anything that didn’t disappear within a few hours.  Each time was a lesson well-learned, increased respect for my parents and others, and a good reminder to think before I spoke or acted.

I do vaguely remember a few incidents where I was properly disciplined, sometimes it was my parents, sometimes other members of my family….. my aunt, my sister…. Ironically I don’t recall ever being spanked by my Grandma or Grandpa, although I’m sure I probably was at some point.  I don’t recall ever pushing their authority at all, maybe I did and don’t remember it.  I just remember always having the utmost respect for them.  I have no idea why I ever challenged my parents, since I always respected them, too.  My Aunt Sarah, may she rest in peace, would tell you about the time I was staying with them because my parents were out of town or something, and I needed to go to the doctor.  I was terrified of getting a shot for whatever I was sick from, and crawled up in the back window of her car, refusing to come out.  There are other stories, I know.

One Christmas I even had a stocking full of switches from Santa!  THAT was an eye-opener!

A few pictures of my babygirl, then read on!

I raised my daughter (she’s now 22) with the incredible support and assistance of my parents and the rest of my family.  I believe I can count on one hand the number of times I spanked her.  That’s because the first time, I believe was when she was probably around two years old.  Nothing harsh, just a firm smack on her behind.  Not hard, just enough to get her attention, and it shocked her and let her know that I meant business.  There were just a couple more times over the next year or so, and soon enough, she got the message that I was in charge, she was to respect me.  After that, all it took was “The Look”.  You know, the raised eyebrow, stern face that says “Excuse me?”  Generally, if she questioned me as to why she should or shouldn’t do something, the conversation went something like this:

“But do I have to, Daddy?”

“Yes, Baby, you do.”

“But why?”

“Who am I?”

“My Daddy.”

“And that’s reason enough, right?

“Yes.”

“Ok then.  I love you, sweetheart.”

“I know, Daddy.  i love you, too.”

Cute story about her:  Once when she was about 2 1/2 or 3 years old, I gave her “The Look”, and verbally reprimanded her…. nothing big, just something she had said, temporarily questioning my authority.  She said, with a pouty face and a sad, sweet voice, “Daddy….”.  Me: “Yes sweetheart?”  Her:  “You’re breaking my heart.”  It was so hard to keep a straight face, I had to look away, and even when I looked back at her, I had to cover my mouth to hide my smile.

Bottom line is, corporal punishment for your child, done correctly and within reason, is perfectly acceptable.  it’s not horrible, mean or abusive,  Done correctly, it teaches respect and reinforces desirable behavior.  The key is to stay in control of yourself emotionally and physically.  Don’t overdo it, and be sure to wrap it up with a good strong hug, and a heartfelt “I love you.”

Now go do something nice for someone.  Smile.  Tell your loved ones “I love you”.

Until next time…..