In my earlier years, I categorized parents who spanked their children into two distinct groups: those who were either neglectful or overly religious. The non-religious spankers would often defend their methods by claiming, “That’s how I was raised, and look at me now! I turned out fine.” I always thought to myself, “Well, you may have turned out okay, but that doesn’t mean what you did was right.” I would silently shake my head, convinced of my superiority in parenting philosophy. I was determined to rely on reason and time-outs, ensuring my children would never endure the confusion of being hit by someone who was supposed to love them.
I was equally frustrated by the overly pious parents who twisted scripture to justify their actions. They believed it was a divine command to administer physical punishment, asserting that without it, their children would succumb to their sinful natures. I often found myself incredulous, thinking, “How could a loving God endorse such behavior?”
Then, I became pregnant.
As my hormones fluctuated, my ability to filter my thoughts vanished. I was adamant that consuming a glass of wine, fish, or unpasteurized cheese could harm my unborn child. I was vocal about my parenting beliefs, especially with my sister, whom I playfully nicknamed “Mrs. Spank-a-lot.” I bombarded her with articles and arguments on the psychological damage of spanking, relishing my role as the informed advocate.
However, my perspective shifted when my son arrived. From day one, he was a colicky baby who morphed into a relentless whiner, finding fault with everything from the color of his peas to the temperature of his cereal. The whining soon escalated into what some might call a “strong-willed” personality—code for being a little difficult.
We tried everything—stern discussions about his behavior, time-outs for defiance, and even praise for good choices. But nothing seemed to make an impact. He laughed at our attempts to reason with him, and his stubbornness only grew.
Then one day, he took it a step too far and slapped me across the face. In that moment, I discovered a third category of spankers—parents who, out of sheer desperation, revert to the age-old disciplinary methods passed down through generations. In an instant, all my carefully constructed beliefs about gentle parenting vanished. I turned him over, gave his bottom a firm smack, and said, “We do not hit, and I am in charge. This isn’t up for debate.”
He cried, and I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. But as we cuddled afterward, I reassured him of my love. Surprisingly, he rebounded quickly. He remained a spirited child, but now he also displayed respect and thoughtfulness in his actions.
My outlook has evolved significantly. I no longer view spanking as an act of abuse but rather as a tool that some parents may resort to in their moments of desperation. It’s not about cruelty; it’s often about survival in the face of strong-willed children.
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with unexpected twists. While I once held firm beliefs against spanking, my experiences have taught me that it can sometimes be a response to extreme circumstances. Every parent must find their own path, informed by their unique situations and challenges.
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