Did you get a spanking, a "time out", or "the switch"?

Or some combination?

I got a stern reprimand. I was often told I was in for a rude awakening.

My mother was particularly good at the silent treatment. That's the worst. I still adbhor the silent treatment in all my relationships. Talk to me, dammit!

All three depending on how wilfully disobedient I had been and who was the Administrator of Correction.

Once corporal punishment ceased to be effective, grounding ensued. When that ceased to be effective my mom would take away my books, leaving me nothing but emptiness of soul.

I got yelled at, hit, screamed at while I was made to stand in a corner facing the wall, medicated on the advice of the school system, made to feel like an idiot, you name it.

Did it do any good? You tell me. Jury's still out, I guess.

I got strapped with paint sticks, hair brushes, and the three foot plastic strips that were used as the track for my brothers dinky cars. I also got yelled at a lot. Oddly, my parents didn't use any other punishments that I can remember - I was never grounded, nor sent to my room. If I ever have a child, I plan to reverse that.

My behavior is appalling. I deserve to be spanked right now.

[oblingingly spanks rainbaby]

<acts out>

[oblingingly spanks rainbaby]

YOWZAH!

Thank you!!!

I needed that.

Whoa is me!

I was a very good little kid. I remember being spanked once. If I was ever punished it was just a stern talking to.

That backfired when I was a teenager - my mother took my extremely mild (in retrospect) rebellious attitude to be the end of the world. Oh well...

I got rare spankings when I was younger.

After that I was sent to my room, often, because I was a misbehavin hyper kid.

I got a sperm reprimand.

Yikes!

*can't think of anything to say that isn't very, very naughty*

I was sold into black market slavery after a minor infraction involving an Easy Bake Oven and several small, green plastic Army Men. I spent my formative years shovelling coal in Eastern European Gulags until one day a visiting lower functionary from the World Bank noticed that I was reading the works of Thoreau in Pit Nine.

He arranged for me to be brought back to the States just in time to begin Etiquette Coursework at Master Pippin's School for Boys, where I was taught the fine art of polite conversation and How to Wield a Serviette.

From there, I attended various public functions as an ambassador's factotum. By the time I was fifteen, I could speak five languages and mastered the intricacies of both croquet and tennis.

All was well. Until one summer the Richelieu brought his daughter in for piano lessons. Well, in a word, I was thunderstruck with lust and longing.

Soon, we were in love, and we were forced from the ancestral home. We parted soon afterwards in a sad state of affairs, covered in soot and grime and squabbling over found chicken parts.

I still think of her fondly, though. Her neck, the drape of her chemise, the come-hither look in her eyes as they peer out of the cover of her collection of ballads.

Ah youth.

All sorts of punishments were used. Spanking would consist of the use of: hands, wooden spoons, spatulas, belts. There was a lot of verbal abuse. Being put in a corner usually happened after being spanked and yelled at. I'd rather have been sent to my room but that's where my books were.

I didn't get punished a lot. I learned at a young age to be quiet and stay out of the way of grownups. I knew I was safest the less I was noticed. Books were (and still are) my hiding place.

Verbal abuse, threats, loomed over if I was reading on the floor, crowded into corners, "Lighten up" *smack*, Joan Crawford-style night raids with my hand forced around a rotten banana peel, dragged around on her errands like a two year old two days after I turned eighteen because I wasn't asked to the prom--no senior showed up at school that day and I didn't want the humiliation of everyone knowing I wasn't asked; I found out later that someone had been talked out of inviting me--why would the class psycho want to come? The one time she left a mark on me I told one of the women in the office (my brother had stolen something out of my room and I chased him out into the back yard where we both grabbed an end of a broken broomstick. I got one end loose first and hit him in the sternum--and he WOULD have done something similar had he gotten it free--and then carried it back in the house. She grabbed it from me and whacked me with it) and I showed the welt to her and the nurse. They called the police and this scumbag cop refused to look at the mark, telling me that he'd seen kids hurt worse than me and I was just mad at my mother. He asked if I wanted to be put in a foster home and I said no, because I'd heard horror stories about them. What I wanted was my mother to be held accountable and the abuse stopped. When I came home, she was on the phone with someone and the cunt said she'd do it again. I was in a therapy group at the time and I told the leader what had happened. When other kids had reported abuse, he had asked to see the marks, but he didn't do that with me. Apparently he talked to my mother and she cried, but the abuse didn't stop. Quite often, my father was there while it was happening, but all he would do was lie in the bedroom groaning to himself.

Several years ago, she did something that broke the camel's back and I no longer speak to her.