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There are many instances throughout life where one sees a youth, faced with adversity, turn to sinister means of relief. Observing it through a suburban picket fence is one thing, trying to rescue your child from its grasp is quite another.
In just six months, my life, and the life of my 14 year old son Jake, was turned upside down and inside out. It began with the sudden passing of my husband, who was not only a loving husband but a caring father to my son and also his younger sisters. Unbeknownst to anyone in his life, including his wife and children, my husband had fallen into an addiction to prescription medication and it was that dangerous habit that eventually cost him his life in the form of an acute pulmonary embolism.
Even discounting the obvious emotional trials that we faced following his passing, his absence as the sole source of income for the family forced me to return to my job as an elementary school teacher, cutting back on the precious time I had with my suffering children. I was astounded by their capacity to adapt and thrive in this new and tragic situation, especially in Jakes leadership as the eldest to help his sisters in my absence. Still, I sensed a resentment, albeit understandable, from my son that he was having to bear this responsibility in addition to his tremendous grief.
Within four or so months after the death of their father, my children, and I as well, took comfort in each others presence and with the long-awaited arrival of the policy money from our insurance company, we began our family anew with just the four of us. The summer, and the short break that accompanied it, ended far too shortly, and soon Jake began his freshman year of high school.
My only son, however mature and worldly he had become, seemed so young in my eyes and his departure into young adulthood often saddened me. Much to my relief, he seemed to thrive in this new environment, even joining the schools cross country team, owing it to the many friendships he had in middle school as well as the reliable study habits he had developed being the son of an educator.
Only a week into the year, however, an unforgettable tragedy struck in our small town as one of the teammates of my son, who just happened to be a close personal friend after years of playing baseball and football together, was struck by a car during a team practice, only minutes after having passed my son, who ran with a slower group of kids. The loss of a life, especially one that young and in a way that reckless and sudden, is something that any child, even one hardened by the previous death of a loved one, struggles with and must be supported through.
Jake was devastated, and sought comfort not only in his family but with his classmates, who had formed perhaps the most inspirational support system I had ever seen. Here was a group of 14 year old boys, known for arrogance and superficiality, crying and embracing each other to support one another in the loss of one of their own.
Only a month after this boys death, and the subsequent malaise Jake was surrounded by at all times, my son had returned to his spirited, joyous self and I thought all had returned to normal.
But, as I had came to realize over the past few days, my son had, perhaps in his vulnerability, began to associate with some “troubled” older students at schools, even going to parties with them and spending more time with them then he did at home. When I confronted him about this, he merely shrugged it off insisting that they were kids I didnt know as they came from the other side of the district, and that he had met them through the cross-country team. I decided to leave well-enough alone and let him continue, as he had always had good judgment in the past.
All of these emotional conflicts came to a head following one of Jakes fall baseball games, on one of the last warm Saturdays in the fall. When I woke him up to get ready to go, he seemed especially groggy and bitter, but I attributed that to the fact that this morning followed the high school football game the previous night, where my son had gone with his friends. However, when I dropped him off at the game, I overheard him using the word “hung-over” with one of his teammates, and while I was concerned, I decided not to push it at this instance.
Following the game, in the car, I decided to be blunt and asked him why I might have heard that. He responded customarily in a detached, general response I could tell was designed to at the very least leave the subject alone. Out of parental concern I decided to inquire further, and after he snapped back at me I decided that if he was participating in something like underage drinking, I should confront it now lest it turn into something larger.
He essentially ignored me from his place in the front seat, too busy on his phone to answer my prodding. Out of annoyance I decided to confiscate the phone and, much to his protest, in a brief lapse of judgment I violated his privacy and looked through his recent activity on Facebook and in text messages.
What I learned, through his correspondence with friends and his posting on his profile, is that this was no isolated incidence. He had been partaking in the very same illegal activities that I had criticized other children for participating in, and he had done it to my utter ignorance because I had trusted him to be responsible for his own decisions.
It was then I realized; I had treated my son as one would a boarder, living with him on good terms but allowing him to make his own decisions as an adult. Except he wasnt an adult. He was a 14 year old child, and in true childish fashion, he had taken to experimenting very naturally with something that could be harmless if done sparingly. But he, like his father, had been carried away and had resorted to drinking often enough to be called dependant, something I learned about addiction in therapy following my husbands death.
I decided that I wasnt about to let what killed the love of my life take my child from me, and following our entrance to the house, I immediately took Jake by the hand to his room and sat with him on his bed. I shared with him what I had read on his phone and from the very first second, he began weeping regretfully.
My heart sank at the sight of my child in tears, and when I asked him what was making him upset, his response shook me to the very soul. He told me that soon after his friend passed, he sunk into a lonely depression and took solace in the company of his classmates, including some unsavory ones. He said that he was exposed to drinking at a party, and was told that it would make him forget about his problems. He became hooked on the anesthetic of alcohol and whenever he felt grief for his father or his teammate, he took to medicating with it.
This story disheartened me not only because my son had been putting himself in danger but mostly because I was completely unaware. I had assumed that he would deal with this and adapt, as he had after the passing of his father, and I hadnt been the mother he clearly needed, the shoulder to cry on for my young, vulnerable child. I needed to be his parent, not his roommate, and we agreed that in the future, he would reassume his role of son and I would regain the authority I once had over him. I could tell he was at heart a very good boy, just in need of an assertive parent to guide him. I voiced, tearfully, this regret to Jake and we both shared a tearful hug, as he promised to stop, with my help, and seek help in the form of therapy, not alcohol. I was incredibly proud of my amazing son.
Still, I knew as a parent that he must be punished for his lying and also to reassert my role as his mother and keeper. So, I told him through tears, both mine and his, that he had to reprimanded. When he asked me what I meant by that, I asked him what he thought a parent should do when their child disobeys them. He responded, albeit softly and sullenly, that kids who misbehave should get a spanking. This shocked me particularly because I hadnt mentioned that idea since his fathers death, as my husband had disciplined Jake up until his death. When I asked him to explain, he elaborated that when his father spanked him, he always felt better and wanted to behave in the future, crying at the very mention of his deceased dad.
I embraced my crying son and agreed that this would be an appropriate punishment, when I asked him if he wanted to get it over with, he tearfully nodded and stood up, separating from our hug to stand by my right side on the bed. He silently lowered his pants and boxers, amazing me with his maturity and poise, and laid across my lap. He looked up at me, saw the tearful pride in my eyes, and told me, “I need this, mom”. Although I wanted nothing more than to lift his slender 56“frame off of my lap and into my arms, I knew he was right. I tousled his short brown hair, and adjusted him over my knee.
Although this spanking was to be highly symbolic I decided that in order for it to be effective, and for it to set a standard for the future, it needed to sting and sufficiently punish my son. I raised my hand to my shoulder and brought it down sharply on his pale bottom, and heard him wince with pain. I began a steady series of rhythmic smacks along each cheek and across both, as I was able to cover nearly both of his small cheeks with my maternal hand. When his isolated groans and whimpers began to melt into a louder, tearful sob, I decided that I needed to end this spanking definitively.
I resolved to give Jake ten more smacks, the hardest of them all, focused mainly on his tender upper thighs. At this point his cheeks were a deep red and the upper half of his thighs were a bright pink, and wiggling as he bucked and kicked his legs slightly. I reassured him and told him that he had but ten more spanks. When I asked if he was ready to end his spanking, he replied in
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a weak, shaking voice, “yes, mommy”. To this day he has never called me mommy again, and he hadnt for years before, but to me it reinforced his cooperation and touched me on a deep emotional level as it meant that I truly had my son back.
I strengthened my resolve and brought my palm down very hard on his left cheek, as he screamed out in agony. When I repeated it on his right cheek, and coupled that with a pair of stingers to each of his sit-spots, he was beside himself and loudly pleaded for me to stop. While I regretted hurting my son, I knew I must continue and I stoically gave him two more loud spanks to each cheek, now jiggling with his constant movement and a dark red color. He and I both knew he had only two more spanks, and I could feel him tense up over my knee. I delivered the first to his left inner thigh, eliciting a howl and increased sobbing, and I finished his first of many maternal spankings with a searing smack to his right thigh that shook his entire body and sent him into even deeper sobbing.
I let him settle for a minute before I lifted him onto my lap and embraced by adorable son for a long time, silently enjoying the comfort of each others arms. He finally stood from my lap and gingerly put his boxers back for the sake of modesty. He then sat, very carefully, on his bed next to me. We talked for over an hour, agreeing that what he needs most right now is some structure, and decided on a list of house rules that included curfew, bedtime, and study requirements in order to facilitate this new relationship. He agreed, although it would stifle his newfound freedom, because he knew that it was in his best interest.
This new dynamic would be tested quite frequently over the next months, and his playful and mischievous nature would require frequent threats of warming his little bottom over my knee, and plenty of real spankings as well. But through all of this, I felt a bass tone of comfort in the fact that I finally had my son back, and that he could now enjoy the childhood he had almost been deprived of, albeit under the careful watch of a stern but loving mother. We, as a family, finally felt that we could move on to a new, happy life.
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