There’s a lot of talk about whether children should be punished, and especially whether they should be spanked or slapped. Geez...there are so many alternatives, and all of them sound pretty good. You can try to talk to the child and help them understand what they are doing wrong and why it is not a good thing to do. You can try to divert the child’s attention to something else - something that will not be a problem and, maybe, something you could do with him. You could do something like make the child sit in a “Time Out” chair for a while, or not let him watch TV for a few days, or maybe not let him play for a while. I think the important thing is that the kid knows why you’re punishing him. And, once you’ve decided to do something, you’ve got to stick to it, or the child will grow up realizing that almost anything you say is little more than an empty threat.
As for physical punishment, I’ve heard a lot of opinions on both sides. Maybe there isn’t any really right answer. But, I know there’s a big, big difference between a slap on the bottom and a real beating, like with a belt buckle or a stick. And, there’s also a big difference between where you slap the child, like the bottom or maybe the hands could be OK, but never, ever the head or anywhere else. In a way, I wish no child ever had to even be spanked. I think there are usually better ways to deal with whatever the kid is doing.
I guess I needed that big long lead-in to say what I have to say. You asked me about punishment when I was a child. Well, I couldn’t just say it right off the bat. I needed to talk a little first. Is that all right?
This is really hard for me to say. I mean, it’s hard to put this in words. It’s still scary to tell you about. It’s like a nightmare that still kind of haunts me. I don’t think about it very often - just once in a great while. You might not even think this is true. It’s just too sick. But I’ve got the scars to prove it. Want to see?
I was just little, maybe four or five. I was angry about something, but I don’t even remember what. It was just one of those little kid kind of things, like maybe not getting a favorite TV show or not being allowed to go outdoors. I don’t remember. What I do remember is stamping my feet. I stamped my little feet all the way up the staircase - we lived in a two story house - and then kept right on stamping them in the upstairs hall. My mother didn’t yell at me or come chasing after me or anything. There I was, all alone, stamping my little angry feet on the hardwood floor. It seemed like a long time, but was probably only ten minutes or so. Finally my mother came upstairs. It was so styrange not to have her mad at me or screaming at me. She was soooo quiet. She just stood there, right beside me, and didn’t say a word. I stopped stamping my feet and looked at her. You know, her being so quiet made me more scared than getting yelled at. I guess I didn’t know how to react. This was so weird.
She finally said, “Are you finished?”
I nodded my head, sort of waiting for her to blow up at me. She didn’t blow up. She was very, very calm and quiet. She said, “Sit down on the floor.” I say down. Then she said, “Take off your shoes.” I guess I was really confused, but I took off my shoes. They were kind of hard to take off because they had little buckles on them.
She left me sitting there...not a sound...nothing...and went into the bathroom. When she came back, she was carrying an old fashioned double-edged razor blade. She handed it to me. You’ve got to remember, I was just a little kid. I knew what a razor blade was, and I knew it was sharp and something I shouldn;t play with. But she handed it to me. I remember putting my little fingers right in the middle so the edges wouldn’t cut me. Then she said, “Cut your foot.”
Oh, God! I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared. I knew I had to do what she said, but I was so scared. I had never cut myself on purpose. The only cuts I’d had were like little tiny accidents. I pressed the edge of the razor blade into the ball of my foot. I cut just a teeny bit...just barely through the skin. I saw little beads of blood start welling up. “Deeper,” she said. I cut deeper. It must have hurt, but I don’t remember the physical hurt. I just remember the fear, and how I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to cut myself. Finally, when my foot was bleeding freely, she took the razor blade away.
She told me to clean up the mess and put my shoes and socks back on. I didn’t dare to cry or speak. If I had cried or said anything, it only would have been worse. I cleaned and cleaned, so she couldn’t see any blood on the floor. Then I folded up toilet paper and put it in my shoe so I wouldn’t bleed into my shoes.
When the floor was clean and scrubbed and shining, she left. I guess the lesson was that my feet got me in trouble by stamping and I had to punish my feet. Now, as an adult, I think it was totally sick. It was wrong. It was cruel. It should never have happened. I wish it never did happen. I wish...oh, God...I wish. Do you want to see the scar?