Bare Bottom Spanking
The Statutory Sentence

Looking back, I believe that for once the tired old saying, “This will hurt me more than it’ll hurt you,” might have been true. Not that Dad ever said so.

As a boy, I was a habitual thief. If it wasn’t nailed down properly, I would often find a way to acquire it—small change in the main, or candy when shoplifting. Money remaining in a wallet or coin purse did not constitute nailed down in my book, for if the coast was even barely clear I’d look in the wallet or purse and help myself to any change that struck me as surplus.

Naturally, this habit was frowned upon by my increasingly concerned parents. Dad would call me “tjuv” (Swedish for thief) and in the same breath inform me that no creature on Earth was lower in his opinion than a tjuv. I should be devastatingly ashamed, I should go and hide, crawl under some rock. That a son of his could be a tjuv, he’d shake his head and grimace. Why, why him? What had he done to deserve that?

Mom would often cry when another theft was unearthed, followed by a fresh confession (always after initial and repeated and sincere denial). Mom's crying hurt me a lot more than Dad’s admonitions, or his punishment for that matter. Far more. Once, I even offered Mom the solution of running away so that she didn’t have to worry about what I might steal next, but she didn’t think that was too well-thought-out and vetoed the suggestion.

So, another theft. Another denial. Another confession. Shaking of heads.

And now and then, a spanking.

My dad, dispensing this statutory sentence—spanking Ulf’s bare bottom—never used any equipment, such as a belt or stick or paddle. He only used his bare, open hand.

In retrospect, it surprises me that this punishment was only meted out three, perhaps four times during my thieving career and why each theft didn’t incur the spank, I don’t know. For in all, I must have pilfered on forty or fifty different occasions, yet it seems like not even one in ten made it all the way through the parental judicial system to sentencing and punishment. Or, possibly (and perhaps more likely), my dad hated the role of spank-dispenser as much as I disliked the role of spank-receiver.

The sentence would be announced the night before. The not-so-good news always delivered by Mom, entering our upstairs kid’s chamber as I was getting ready for bed. Tomorrow I would get “smisk” (Swedish for a spanking). Dad had decided this.

But Mom, I’ll never take anything ever again. Ever. And I’ve asked for forgiveness. I’ve been forgiven. Does he have to?

Forgiven by whom? Mom wanted to know.

By you, I said. Remember? And by Dad. And by God.

She frowned at that, as if that didn’t count, so I added, for insurance purposes, and by Jesus.

Jesus forgave you?

He’s the forgivingest ever. Yes. And Grandma Olga, I’d add for more insurance.

Olga forgave you? She doesn’t even know about this, your latest..

She would though, I interrupted her, if she knew.

Mom shook her head. Sorry, she said. Tomorrow morning.

It took a while for the boy to fall asleep that night, along with a bunch of prayers to God (well, the same one over and over), who seemed to have abandoned me—letting me steal again and all.

Grandma Olga had taught me this prayer, and perhaps, perhaps if I said it often enough and meant it strongly enough, God would make Dad change his mind.

God, who loves all children

Find me here, ever so small

Wherever I turn in this world

My fortune rests in God’s hands

Fortune comes and fortune goes

Those whom God loves

Are so very fortunate

And again, and again. No answer though, He never did. No indication He’d heard. So there was only the faint hope that God would knock on Dad’s shoulder after all and suggest that next morning’s spanking might not be a great idea. Surely Dad would listen to God and change his mind—even though Dad wasn’t much of a believer.

Considering, I slept well. But within seconds of waking up, I’m aware of what day this is: Spanking Day; and I have a feeling that God might not have intervened.

The hour arrived. My mom would always be present, wearing her “let this be a lesson” face, standing back a bit, perhaps in the doorway between the little bedroom where the spank was to take place and the kitchen where a curious and somewhat scandalized little sister Lili-Ann would linger, hoping for a glimpse of the proceedings.

Mom, however, was always making sure there would be none of that. In fact, I’d ask Mom to make doubly, triply sure. “Lili-Ann cannot be here,” I’d say between loud sniffles, since by this time I am crying my very best “I am so, so, so sorry” cry in a final ditch effort to make Dad change his mind.

Judging by his face, a stern grimace, no Dad-Mind was about to change.

And then it was down with the pants and under-ditto, and lay down over daddy’s knees, butt in the air, and then it began.

No one was counting, I certainly wasn’t, but I’d put money on a count that never reached double digits. Dad’s hand hurting too much? Dad’s embarrassment too acute?

So, was this painful? No, not really. Mainly humiliating.

So, was the lesson learned? No, not really. Once the next soon-to-be-lifted pennies or candy or whatever called attention to itself by whispering my name, I don’t think a hundred spankings would have stopped me—my hand wasn’t really my hand to command. It reached for, took hold of, lifted, and pocketed the goods.

This was a hand with a mind of its own, until in my mid-teens, I finally took full hand-ownership and that, as they say, was that.

End of thievery.

End of sore daddy-hand.

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