Smack That

I hope I don't go to prison for saying this, but when I have children of my own, you can bet that I'll give them a good whooping from time to time. I also talk from experience when I say this.
Starting from the age of two or so, I received a good spanking whenever I misbehaved. The hits progressively became harder and the tools that were used to give the hits transformed from a hand to a stem whip.
Allow me to recreate a scene: Let's say that I not only brought home a bad grade, but I also talked bad to my mom, had a intensive fight with my brother, and got caught in a lie with my dad...all in the same day. My father would then address the issue by taking me into his room, locking the door, and bringing along his sturdy stem whip. He'd sit me down on the bed and have a way-too-calm talk with me. I'd desperately try to explain that it was somehow not my fault, that I'd never do it again, and yadda-yadda-yada. My words would be broken with tears and my mind would frantically try to come up with excuses to give to my dad. Finally, my dad would tell me his penalty: two hits, three if I made a fuss. I'd wail even louder as I voluntarily pulled down my pants and exposed my six layers of underwear (you see, I was prepared). I'd turn my back to him, lay my front face down on the bed, grab a pillow to bite down on, and brace myself for the worst. My anticipation was cut short by a quick "SWIPPP!" and the pain surged right through my skin.
After my beating, my head ached and my legs burned. I expressed my pain with loud, weeping howls that echoed through the whole house. My sister would always stand behind the door and wait for my dad to finish only to cry with me; she'd stroke my hair and wipe my tears as my cries continued.
Only then was when I truly learned not to do it again.