Peanut Shells of a Stubborn Toddler
The last time my father spanked me
I don’t remember the last time my father spanked me. But, I’ve heard the story my whole life. It shouldn’t make me as proud as it does, but if I’m being completely honest, it does. I have some weird sense of pride about it. It is probably because when I was told the story, I was told it was evidence of how much like my father I am. I’ve always been proud of that.
First, yes, my parents spanked me sometimes. Not often, but they did spank us. I’m in Year 49. I imagined everyone my age and older can say the same. I’m ambivalent about it really. I don’t think it is a great way to discipline children, but I also don’t think a child will be permanently psychologically damaged from a physical spanking either. I’ve read all the parenting books. I know what studies have shown. Like I said, I’m pretty ambivalent about it. My kids probably have no memories of being spanked, though when they were very small it happened a few times — more like a swat on the butt. We were a “time-out family” and a “Counting 1, 2, 3 family.” Some days when I’m really frustrated with my teenagers, I’ve been known to say to them,
“I really should have beat you more.”
We either laugh about that statement or I’m told,
“No, you should not have. That is child abuse and I will call the authorities on you.”
We live in different times!
So, I have no memory of what I’m about to share with you. My mom will correct what I get wrong and maybe I will write about it again. The images I have in my head of what happened could not possibly be correct because when I imagine it, I’m a two (or three?) year old standing in the kitchen of the house we moved into when I was around six. So, that isn’t right. But, when the family would tell the story — usually my mother telling it — the only reference I had was the house I was growing up in. So, I supplanted the details of the story that I couldn’t remember on scenes that I could.
So, I’m little, a toddler. And, apparently, I’m standing in the kitchen eating peanuts out of the shells. Often in my imagination, they are boiled peanuts, but when I think about that logically it just doesn’t make sense. My dad liked to eat peanuts of all kinds. He was one of those southerners who would buy a pack of peanuts and a bottle of Coca-Cola and pour the peanuts down into the Coke. He would stick his thumb in the neck of the bottle and shake them up then drink it. He also almost always stopped if he saw a hand-made sign on the side of the road, “Boiled Peanuts for Sale.” I think that is why I always think of boiled peanuts. Those are the kind I saw him eat most. He did not pass this love of peanuts down to me. This story may be the answer as to why.
So, I’m small, standing in the kitchen while Daddy is sitting at the kitchen table. We are both eating peanuts out of the shells. I would crack one open, drop the shell on the floor, eat the peanut. Apparently, I had a small pile of shells when Dad told me to pick them up. I responded,
“No!”
That is when the spanking started. He would pick me up, swat my bare legs, put me down and say,
“Pick up those shells.”
To which I would answer,
“No!”
And, he would spank my legs again.
I was so stubborn (something I did inherit from him!) that he spanked me until my legs were very red. I was crying. He was almost in tears. According to the story, this went on for quite some time. No matter how hard he spanked me, no matter how hard I cried, I refused to pick up the peanut shells. But, I got my stubbornness from him, so it wasn’t likely that I would win.
Finally, after one final spanking, with my legs streaked with red marks, I reached down and picked all the peanut shells up off the floor. According the family myth, I then turned around, put the shells behind my back, looked my father in the eye, and dropped them to the floor again.
Dad gave up. He walked away frustrated saying,
“I’m never spanking her again.”
He never did.
