On Corporal Punishment

I’m one of those hippie types. Or, I like to think of myself as one of those hippie types. I love to go to the farmer’s market. I support local businesses as often as I can. I recycle almost everything and feel very good about that. I read all the labels on my shampoo and conditioner and deodorant and as soon as I can afford it, I will avoid all products that use animals in laboratory tests. And I don’t eat THAT much red meat…

So as you might guess, when it comes to discipline, I am not into violence. There is no spanking in our household. We have chosen other methods for setting limitations and imposing consequences. I concede to being a ridiculous optimist, but given the current headlines about alleged criminal misconduct at Haditha, about the goings on at Abu Ghraib prison, there is a voice inside my head promising me that if all the mommies and daddies taught all the children that it’s never okay to hit each other, they’d be less likely to be marching off to war when they’re out of high school.

Mind you, I have nothing against those who choose to spank their children (within the obvious limits). I myself come from a long line of proud spankers. My father actually hung a paddle on the wall in our dining room, ever at the ready, lest we forgot to mind our manners. I’m not sure what it's called, but it is a beautifully ornate piece of sculpted wood that my grandfather brought back from Africa.

I don’t know if it’s true, but my dad told us that African tribe elders used it to maim and even kill offending tribesmen by knocking them on the temple with it, and that he would not hesitate to whip us with the very same paddle if we didn’t “cut the shit” immediately.

These days, my dad will happily mount his soap box and sing the praises of a good lashing. Whenever he can, he reminds my siblings and me that the reason we are such fine people today is because of his willingness to beat the crap out of us. Funny that none of us remembers our childhood quite that way. We remember Dad as a great listener, as someone who talked to us and respected us as individuals even when we were just little ones, and as someone who made reasonable rules and always enforced them calmly and consistently. I don’t remember more than one, maybe two spankings from my Dad in my whole life. (They were much-deserved and well-implemented. Any social worker would approve. I look back know and am certain they hurt him more than they hurt me...) But far be it from me to shatter the image he holds of himself as a father. He credits brain and brawn in equal parts for his parenting success.

According to Dad these days, the world would be a better place if more parents would respond to their little brats by “knocking them into next week” or “slapping them naked and hiding their clothes.” In Dad’s claimed philosophy of child-rearing, kids need to know you’ll “tear their little butt up” before they’ll take you seriously. Perhaps.

Maybe if I would just “rock his world a little” as my father suggests, I would finally get all the respect I deserve from Elias, in spite of the terrible two’s. Maybe just one good walloping would be enough to set him straight on the path to cooperation.

This was my line of thinking at nearly eleven o’clock one night, almost three full hours past Eli’s bed time. He had rediscovered the nightlight and was jumping out of bed, running across the room, and doing his best to wrestle it free from the socket, cackling all the while. Several rules were being broken. But I had decided to pursue only the no-touching-electrical-outlets rule. This was a serious matter and needed to be handled swiftly and firmly. I had to make a lasting impression. It was dangerous, after all. He could be seriously hurt or killed even should some bizarre elecrical surge happen at the right moment. I explained this to him in my most uncompromising mother voice.

“Dangerous! Hurt!” Elias rolled with laughter and repeated what he correctly perceived to be the key words in my admonition. He could not contain himself.

I went back and forth with him several times. I was very stern. I tried to reason with him. I pleaded. I explained. I simply said no. But nothing worked. He was beside himself with uncontained amusement. He was quiet only long enough to inhale. He swallowed little sips of air, collected himself, and then the giggles spilled from him all over again.

Time and again, I put him in bed and repeated the tuck-in routine, but as soon as I made for the door, he would dash across the room and I’d have to physically restrain him seconds before he managed to remove the nightlight from its place on the wall.

“That’s IT.” I announced calmly but firmly.
“Elias, if you touch that one more time, you. Are going. To get.
A SPANKING.”

I had said it out loud. My husband and I agreed long before our children were ever conceived that once it’s out there, you’re bound. I would have to follow through. One last time, I carried Eli to bed and tucked him in while he giggled. I sat beside him and lingered. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t angry. I wanted to be sure I was ready to follow through. I gave him one more kiss and told him good night. And again, as soon as I got up from his bed, as I expected, he looked me in the eye, smiled, and then darted toward the night light.

I scooped him up, popped him on the bottom with a flat hand and a poker face, and set him on his feet again. He froze for a moment and then he burst up onto his toes, leapt in the air, and did a nose dive into his bed, cackling hysterically.

“What nerve!” I thought. “He thinks this is hilarious.” I was fuming.

And then it hit me: Why shouldn’t it be funny to him? The only time he has ever experienced any similar sensation is during a tickle fight. The only time he has ever been swatted at or smacked in any way is when we’re chasing him down the hall and swooping his legs out from under him as we run to the next room, chuckling. Of course. He thinks it’s a game. That’s his only context.

And suddenly I was so relieved. What if he had taken me seriously? What if he believed that I would actually strike him? At that moment, I was thrilled at his defiance, because it no longer seemed deviant. It just seemed… innocent. It has not occurred to my little boy that I might hit him with the intention of hurting him, as a means of punishment or otherwise. It is not within his realm of possibility that I might do something to his body that isn’t welcome. Fine. The day will come soon enough when he learns that some people impose their physical power over others. And when he learns how it feels for someone to push or hit or bite him, he can learn it on the playground. He’s not going to learn it from me.

I took a deep breath. I even laughed. I reveled in his innocence. And then I had the presence of mind to rearrange the furniture in his room so he could no longer reach the outlet or the nightlight. I somewhat hardheartedly explained the new arrangement to Eli as the consequence of his misbehavior. It took only three minutes and it was extremely effective.

The spanking debacle notwithstanding, I emerged as the victor. Would my dad be disappointed? I don’t think so. This is what works for me. Today anyway. I am totally willing to reevaluate after he’s learned those difficult lessons on the playground. I proudly reserve the right to change my mind and decide that “tearing his little butt up" is the best option for future situations. But for now, I choose brains over brawn any day.