Raising my son in a time when corporal punishment is viewed unfavorably

"The U.K. Government has ruled out a complete ban on smacking after conducting a review into the practice which found that most parents would oppose such a move." The Telegraph 10.25.07

As a child, my mother was disciplined strictly. In her growing up years, as one of five children, there was little time for play, less time for indulgences and punishment for bad behavior was swift and harsh. Of the little that I know about how she used to be corporally punished, I can still manage to wince in sympathy for the child she was.

It was inevitable then, that my sister and I would grow up exposed to her inherited methods of discipline. By this generation's standards, they might be considered at best archaic and at worst, barbaric. In my time, my mother was viewed by her peers as a strict disciplinarian who allowed her two daughters very little slack and expected much more from them than other parents with children of comparable age did of theirs. I distinctly remember one of her lady friends telling her that we would end up hating her if she continued in her established course.

This was my mother's course: She was a firm believer in warnings. We would be warned repeatedly. A time-line to stop or start a behavior was clearly outlined by her and only when faced with our non-compliance, would she follow through unwavering in her determination to punish us. Afterwards, there was resentment on our part but never a feeling that she was gratuitously punishing us. My mother did not get a kick from exacting corporal punishment and, even as a child, I could sense that how she acted, was based on her belief that it was for our own best interests. Her policy was to preempt further punishment by making a first one so scathing, that we would never wish to incur it again. For my sister and I, this approach worked.

We were always so aware of our mother's inhuman ability to catch us when we were misbehaving that fear of her reaction, kept us on the straight and narrow path when otherwise we might have strayed more. This in no way cowed our childhood spirits, we were just more cognizant of the possible consequences of our actions, naughty or otherwise.

I hope you haven't gotten a wrong impression of my mother. Her stern side was balanced by the kind of unfathomable love that I still think myself incapable of replicating with my son and you can have no idea of how I love my child. She was both loving and strict and these two facets had qualities of extremeness in them. That is how it was.

In the years since my childhood, she has mellowed considerably. The doting grandmother she is today has little in common with the mother of my childhood. My son can get away with almost anything when he is with her and in her indulgence and love she will shield him even from me. She has happily relinquished her role as task-master and disciplinarian now that she is one generation removed.

For my part, I hardly ever punish my son corporally. How I discipline him so far, is based completely on his youth, his ability to understand why he is being punished and, my own personal preference to substitute his quiet chair for a spank if possible. That is not to say that I do not believe in spanking when, to my view, it is truly warranted. I will not go into the details of what I consider "spank worth" behavior. Like my mother, I neither enjoy disciplining my son nor the sense of guilt that follows. Nevertheless, from my own punishments growing up I have taken away the following: Being strict and following through on the promise of punishment, though unpopular by today's measure is not always a sign of "child mistreatment". That particular label should only be assigned on a case by case basis. In parenting, I suscribe to the thought that a strict parent can be a loving parent. That direct eye contact with my child coupled with words that are commandingly spoken work more often than one can imagine. That a spank as a last resort can sometimes be enough of a deterrent that my son will think twice about doing something he knows he should not. I am a parent. Parenting is what I am trying to do. I wouldn't want anyone to take that away from me.

Waking up is nice to do

I was just thinking this morning that I very much look forward to having my son come and find me after he wakes up. Usually, I can anticipate his arrival by the patter of his feet on the floor right before he pops his head through the kitchen door and smiles at the pleasure of finding me in my usual place "there you are!" he'll say in his little piping voice, as if he's been looking for me for ever.

I melt every time. Then comes the hugging and the good morning kisses and, if it wasn't a good morning before, then the goodness starts flowing in. He has that much power my little boy. Days look sunnier after he wakes to them.

My sister always says that I wake up like a Jack in the Box. Basically this means that I open my eyes and, as if I had an inner spring, I bong upright in bed with a smile pasted on my face. I should clarify that this used to be true but no longer. After having my son and due mostly to the perennial lack of sleep, I tend to wake up less bright eyed and spastic. I also try to linger a bit in bed in order not to forgo the brief but lovely cuddle my husband never fails to give before getting up to start his day. He hugs me tight and holds me warmly and I feel so dear and loved that this too, melts me every time.

The same sister I mentioned earlier is not herself a morning person. At home, while we were growing up, we knick-named her often and unflatteringly based on her less than stellar disposition in the mornings. She was little miss vinegar or acid or miss Tasmanian devil or little scrooge depending on our daily preference. She made no excuses for her manner and over time, we learned to give her the space she seemed to need until she was truly ready to embrace the day. Some people decide when it is morning even if daylight calls it differently.

Before becoming a mommy, I was a true tea drinker in the mornings. Tea and a toasted egg sandwich with melted ham and cheese in it. Juice on the side and a bowl of fresh fruit. Now the only thing that determines the official start of my day is coffee. A generous shot of hot milk, two spoonfuls of brown sugar, and enough coffee into the mix that against the white porcelain of my cup it looks just a shade darker than milk chocolate. That's it. Good morning to you too.