Thursday, September 17, 2009
I do not hit my kids. It isn't that I don't believe in corporal punishment.
Honestly, I wouldn't mind holding down some of the monsters I have seen at the mall for their parents to beat the living shit out of them.
I just don't have it in me to inflict physical pain on another person. Emotional pain? Sure, I am an expert on that but I simply can't strike another person even if it is for "their own good".
I steer clear of giving an opinion when this debate comes up around me. As a former receptacle for whatever was close that my mother could throw at my head, I find I might be a little biased in this area.
My parents were from the spare the rod, spoil the child generation and they certainly went to the head of that class. We were hit with not only hands but hairbrushes, wooden spoons and whatever else could be hand held and sting like a muther when striking the skin.
As a forty something year old women with kids of my own, I can't help but think how entirely fucked up that was. We weren't particularly bad kids. Yes, we were loud and annoying but we were KIDS. The beatings were not to teach us a lesson but only so they could vent their frustration and anger.
Looking back I can only recall one incident were I remember why I was hit at all. But even that wasn't a lesson but because I was out too late and my mother sent my father out to look for me. The man probably didn't even know I was late but had to leave his comfy chair and miss the latest MASH episode to track down my curfew breaking ass.
I got home and my mother screamed, "GO WAIT OUTSIDE SO YOUR FATHER CAN SEE YOU. HE IS LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU!"
Yeah...I knew I was fucked. I stood on the curb, heart pounding, knowing I was in mighty deep shit and praying for an asteroid to fall from the sky rendering my body unrecognizable. Oh who was I kidding. He would just beat the shit out of the remaining pieces.
As I stood there, I saw headlights and lifted my arm in a friendly little wave with a half smile hoping to defuse the situation.
Since he drove up on the curb and lawn chasing me with the car, it obviously didn't work. He threw the car into park, grabbed my arm and SLAP! right across the face.
Come to think of it, that punishment really did work. I was never late again...
Atleast when I knew he would be home.
Posted by Christine at 10:05 AM