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It’s funny the ideas you get as a child. We were on holiday in the British seaside resort of Scarborough, and I was four years old. One day, as we walked along the promenade, I got it into my head to start dragging my left foot as I walked. My parents were naturally concerned. My mother took me over to a convenient nearby bench and sat me down. She took off my shoe and checked there wasn’t a stone in there, then experimentally, gently rotated my ankle. I didn’t cry out in pain, so she asked: “Are you all right?” I nodded. “Then why are you limping?” I shrugged. “Well, stop it!” She smacked the top of my leg lightly. We resumed walking along the prom but as soon as my mother’s attention was elsewhere, I began to drag my left foot again. I found I liked the attention I was getting from other...

My name is Michelle and this is one of my “real life” experiences. I hope you enjoy it; I am rather curious what folks think about my story. I was raised on a farm and knew the meaning of hard work. I helped my Mom around the house, helped some with the livestock and when I got old enough, drove the truck when we loaded hay. My parents were hard-working, conservative and religious. My grandfather (my mother’s dad) was a preacher. I may have been a girl and an only child but I was certainly not spoiled. My parents believed in the phrase, “spare the rod and spoil the child.” Actually, it was a paddle, not a rod! The paddle was made of wood and was about a foot and a half long. It was kept on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I remember several occasions when I felt that hard wood smack...

“Uhoh”, I thought. There was Aunt Jayne. “She’s looking for me, I just knew it!” I had been running around all day long trying to avoid her. She was mad as hell and with pretty good reason. I had flooded the bathroom again. Really bad this time. Phewwwww blowing a long stream of air from my lips. Looking again toward Aunt Jayne. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t stay here hiding much longer. My stomach is growling now. I can smell dinner cooking. God Aunt Jayne sure can cook. She says all her recipes aren’t. When I ask her to tell Mom how to make things. Back in the city we eat mostly takehome. Chinese and Italian mostly. The only Italian food here is Chef Boy-ar-Dee at the IGA. I’m starving. I smell peaches. All just hanging there. I should have grabbed some when I had the chance...

I grew up in a Christian family and every summer our church had a weekly summer camp. This included many worship activities but also offered lots of time just to be around and play with kids from both my own church and others. For some reason in the summer when these events took place, both my parents had work commitments and were unable to attend the camp. Thid made me very sad because I loved our times there. Fortunately, one of my parent’s friends offered to take me along with her own family. This was a lady from our church called Kirsten, though everyone called her Auntie Gege. Auntie Gege and her eldest daughter had babysat me quite a lot, so we knew each other well. Auntie Gege told my parents I could travel with her family, then have a tent of my own in the campground, eating w...

This is a story about me getting a smacked bottom for misbehaving in the supermarket, I cannot remember exactly what age, but basically, my mum was a firm believer in corporal punishment for both me and my three sisters while we were growing up. On this particular occasion, I had been naughty and in a foul mood all day. Then my mother decided we needed to do a food shop at the supermarket. I hated food shopping and Mum knew this. Once we got in the shop, I was still misbehaving. I knocked stuff off the shelves and was being rude to both my siblings and to other adults in the shop. Having already given me several warnings about my behaviour throughout the day, Mother had finally had enough. She dragged me by the hair and took me down one of the quieter aisles. Once we were there, she firmly...

 Click to Purchase Price: 49.72 GBP The History Of Corporal Punishment – A Survey O. Scott