13 thoughts on “Ya’ll remember these? They still echo in my head… My face did freeze like that.”
Get down from there!
Stop that before you put someone’s eye out!
Don’t run with the scissors!
Get your elbows off the table!
Wait ’til your father gets home!
The last one – put fear in our hearts, because he would strap us when he found out. And, I might add, we deserved it!
I’v used every one of those on my grandkid in just the last week. And a few others that I won’t repeat.
“Don’t make me get a wooden spoon”.
My skull broke two wooden spoons that attacked me from behind. We were never warned, she’d strike like a rattlesnake.
One that I used a lot on my kids when they would claim something wasn’t fair: “Congratulations on your ability to detect unfairness”. They’re both grown but they remember that one.
I like that one.
Your full given name, as written on your birth certificate. You had best have given your soul to Jesus, cause your ass was Mom’s. And she had every intentions of wearing that switch out on it, too.
Wet dish rag welts across your bare back.
Bamboo cane is even worse!
Mom had to cut a new one every week because she broke or wore out the old one.
Mum used to save time and effort by using a wooden coathanger. What I learned to fear were the times that she was cranky enough to break the wooden ones on my legs, because then she’d grab hold of the heavy-guage wire ones, and I’d cop extra whacks for making her break the good wooden one.
There wasn’t much that could sting for longer than that heavy wire across your legs and backside, though mum tried to find it. If nothing was in easy reach, well her hand would do, but she’d put extra effort into the whack to make up for that.
“Go get a switch.” Yep, we had to go pick the one she was going to use; had to be a green switch that wouldn’t break. She would strip the leaves off while the miscreant watched, and then apply said device to the miscreant’s calves (and thighs, depending on accuracy and the punishee’s movements. This was in summertime Houston; we were always in shorts.
Mother knew that the anticipation was as much a punishment as the punishment itself. And there was no way to pick a good one. Thicker sticks hurt differently, but the tiny, more flexible ones were the worst – only made that mistake once. Didn’t get switched a lot; probably deserved (and certainly learned from) the ones I got.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“It isn’t a question!”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“I’m not even going to wait until your dad gets home!”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“What part of you not hanging around Billy do you not understand?”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
Good times.
Get down from there!
Stop that before you put someone’s eye out!
Don’t run with the scissors!
Get your elbows off the table!
Wait ’til your father gets home!
The last one – put fear in our hearts, because he would strap us when he found out. And, I might add, we deserved it!
I’v used every one of those on my grandkid in just the last week. And a few others that I won’t repeat.
“Don’t make me get a wooden spoon”.
My skull broke two wooden spoons that attacked me from behind. We were never warned, she’d strike like a rattlesnake.
One that I used a lot on my kids when they would claim something wasn’t fair: “Congratulations on your ability to detect unfairness”. They’re both grown but they remember that one.
I like that one.
Your full given name, as written on your birth certificate. You had best have given your soul to Jesus, cause your ass was Mom’s. And she had every intentions of wearing that switch out on it, too.
Wet dish rag welts across your bare back.
Bamboo cane is even worse!
Mom had to cut a new one every week because she broke or wore out the old one.
Mum used to save time and effort by using a wooden coathanger. What I learned to fear were the times that she was cranky enough to break the wooden ones on my legs, because then she’d grab hold of the heavy-guage wire ones, and I’d cop extra whacks for making her break the good wooden one.
There wasn’t much that could sting for longer than that heavy wire across your legs and backside, though mum tried to find it. If nothing was in easy reach, well her hand would do, but she’d put extra effort into the whack to make up for that.
“Go get a switch.” Yep, we had to go pick the one she was going to use; had to be a green switch that wouldn’t break. She would strip the leaves off while the miscreant watched, and then apply said device to the miscreant’s calves (and thighs, depending on accuracy and the punishee’s movements. This was in summertime Houston; we were always in shorts.
Mother knew that the anticipation was as much a punishment as the punishment itself. And there was no way to pick a good one. Thicker sticks hurt differently, but the tiny, more flexible ones were the worst – only made that mistake once. Didn’t get switched a lot; probably deserved (and certainly learned from) the ones I got.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“It isn’t a question!”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“I’m not even going to wait until your dad gets home!”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“What part of you not hanging around Billy do you not understand?”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
Good times.