It feels like I could never go a week without getting punished for something. Those rare times when I brought a bad grade home (spelling assignments, I’m looking at you), it seemed the punishment was more severe. And I wonder where my extreme perfectionism comes from…
Bringing home a bad grade was my worst nightmare. It was usually followed by the wooden spoon, no dinner and no books. The dinner and the books, although crappy, weren’t probably abusive. I can’t say the same about the wooden spoon.
The hitting was almost always done with my shirt on. She couldn’t risk leaving any marks. Sometimes it was the spoon base. But more often than not, it was the handle end. In some ways, I preferred the spoon end. It didn’t sting as bad. And, in my (probably) distorted view, she seemed to tired out more quickly.
It came to the point, I no longer cried. I laid there, dejected. Resigned to my fate. There was no fighting back. If anything, tears made it all worse.
Thankfully (I guess) I did well in school except for spelling. I still can’t spell to save my life. I’m thankful for the invention of spell check, even if I do still stump it. So school related wooden spoon contact was rare. Not that there weren’t numerous other things I was punished for.