All of my siblings and I grew up with a fear of the paddle. Granted, none of us save Trey - really got it that much. I remember as a very young child, just Mom saying, “I’m going to get the paddle” would be enough to strike the fear of God in me, and I wouldn’t step out of line.
Of course, as we got older, groundings became much more effective. But I believe when I was in grade school, Mom found early on that sending me to my room didn’t work so well because I would just lie on my bed and read, quite happy and content, even though I was supposed to be thinking over why I was in trouble.
However, I clearly remember the last time my mother had ever used the paddle on me.
It was a paint mixing stick. Fairly flimsy, but enough to smart if hit, though not enough to provide any lasting damage. She would keep it on a shelf in the kitchen, I believe.
That day, for the life of me, I can’t remember what we were fighting about. I was about 14 or 15 -- that age when I was venturing into the land of talking back to my mother, so I’m sure I had smarted off in one way or another.
I was in the bedroom that I shared with my younger sister, vacuuming. It was Saturday -- the day Mom gave all of us a list of chores that we had to complete beforewecoulddoanythingfun.Anyonewhoknows me knows that I hate cleaning. I would venture to guess those lists had something to do with it. If we didn’t clean to Mom’s standards, she’d make us do it again, so there was no skipping corners or rushing. You did it right the first time, or you did it again, and it took longer.
But that day, I was crying as I was vacuuming. I don’t recall what I said, all I know is I knew the exact moment that I had said the wrong thing. Mom stormed off and then came stomping back down the hallway to my room, the paddle in hand. My eyes widened. She stepped up to me, pulled her arm back, and snapped me on the thigh with the paddle.
Which promptly broke in half. Both of us stood there frozen, staring at the small red mark on my thigh and the broken piece of paddle on the floor. I was holding my breath. Because everything in me wanted to start laughing. But I was terrified that if I laughed, Mom would find another paddle, or I’d get grounded. Or basically end up in more trouble than I was already in.
Momwhippedaroundandmarchedbackdownthe hallway, leaving me standing there in my bedroom with no clue over what was going on in her mind.
We never spoke about it again. Years later, when I was in my 20s, we were sitting on the back deck hanging out with Mom’s friends, and that day came up. Mom immediately started laughing.
“Em, I wanted to laugh so bad when that paddle broke. I was not expecting that. But I was afraid if I started laughing you would start crying and I didn’t want to upset you, so I turned and got out of there as fast as I could,” she said. “I went to my bedroom and laughed for about five minutes straight.”
Imagine my shock. I gaped at her a moment before a chuckle broke out from my lips “Mom, I wanted to laugh so bad as well. But I was afraid that you would punish me again,” I said.
We then both lost it, my mother’s friends also joining in.
“Mom… what were we even fighting about?” “You know, I don’t even remember…”