I remember the only time I was ever spanked. It was all my sister’s fault.
One day when I was probably 4 or 5, we were in the kitchen in Highland Park where I grew up and I got mad at my big sister. She was probably trying to boss me around, and I wasn’t having any of it. I basically invented the phrase “You’re not the boss of me!”
I remember looking up at her (she was a lot taller than I was; we were 9 years apart), and I inexplicably hit her, probably in her arm.
I glanced panic-stricken at my Dad, and saw his expression change from loving father to something resembling a gargoyle, which I had never seen before. Of course, I had never hit my sister before, so that might account for his change in visage.
On impulse, I tore out of the kitchen and bounded up the stairs, thinking I could escape retribution. I hadn’t even heard of the word “retribution”, but I knew what it meant.
As I rounded the landing in the middle of the staircase, my Dad’s shovel-sized hand whacked my behind and propelled me up the second flight of stairs.
I hid in my room for several hours, and I’m sure I came down and apologized. If I didn’t then, I just want to say to my sister,
“I’m sorry, Kirie. It’ll never happen again.”
Boy, I learned a great lesson that day. Thank you, Dad.