Written by Elizma De Jongh
So the whole debate has erupted again ... To spank or not to? Let me share my history, how I landed up in therapy and my parenting techniques.
My first memory of being spanked was when I accidentally pulled on the dining room table’s cloth. There were three flies and I wanted them to go away. I ‘whooshed’ them away with my little hands, but they were still there. So I pulled the cloth. Everything came crashing down – the candle sticks, the flower vase, everything. And I got a hiding. After all, I should have had the insight of an adult at two years old, hey?
Then, at about three years old, I remember I wanted to surprise my mom and wash her little Mini. Unfortunately one of the windows was open and some water got into her car. I ruined her car, according to her. Smack, smack. I remember later – getting into a fight with a friend who bullied me and I threw a punch at her. Smack.
I grew so afraid of the smacking that I did everything ‘perfectly’. Still, I would get smacked for saying ‘no’ to anything and everything.
I bruise easily and I remember going to school with red, blue and purple marks on my legs, because my mother often missed the target of my bum. The bum is where you should aim at, they say (I wonder why, is it because there is a lot of fat?). I would make up excuses of falling while doing gymnastics or whatever. In those year’s no-one investigated.
I grew to hate my mother. I had such resentment towards her that I didn’t want to go near her. And no, she didn’t hit me with a hose-pipe or anything. It’s just that my body and soul were connected. You hit me, you crush my soul. Little by little, until there was nothing left.
At 14 I refused to wear the shoes she bought me. I wanted something else. It got out of hand. She tried to smack me and I grabbed her by the hair. Enough was enough already! What happened? I was sent off to an institution because I was a ‘troubled child’. Troubled? I have never even left my room, let alone experimented with cigarettes, alcohol or drugs. I didn’t even have a boyfriend (I had the first one when I was 19). There I was padded walls and such. Good, because I bumped my head over and over and over again. I thought I was a good child. Why did she hit me? I wondered long and hard: Why was smacking me on my bum such a good measure for her? Why couldn’t she just talk? What did I do wrong? “Please, Mommy, teach me a lesson at least,” I often prayed at night.
How did I feel when she smacked me? Humiliated, deprived of power, resenting her. I didn’t have a voice because the smacking is the end of the line. No matter what she said afterwards, nothing could make me feel better. She had already hurt me. She didn’t understand that I was not an adult and had my own ‘time-line’. For example, when I turned 10 I had a super party. I got a packet of 24 different coloured pencils and that was great for those times. But when I saw off my friends, I simply fell asleep. She hit me because I didn’t ‘clear up my room’. Those pencils are still etched into my mind.
At age 27 I felt that I had to let go of the resentment and hatred, especially because I studied Psychology. I hit pillows, I screamed, I hated the rigid things I had to go through as a child – your clothes must be perfectly hanged, you broke another thing, you screamed... After a year’s therapy I could let go of that, mostly.
Then I had my own kids. I never thought I would have kids of my own because I didn’t want them to be hurt. From day one I decided that I would never, ever physically touch my children as a means of discipline. Nor shout at them and demean them, because that could be just as damaging. Of course as small kids they try their luck. Like the ‘no’s’. Tantrums (which are actually good, they are defining themselves as individuals). Defying you. I decided to take them into my arms during those times to calm them down and tell them what was acceptable or not. We had clear rules from the early days: No smacking, no beating, no bad words, no stealing, and no lying. If you did something wrong, come and tell me and we will work out an answer.
Teach them to share from an early age. Not easy. Of course some things are yours etc. But then sit down with them and play together. You take the turn with the truck, and then you have the train.
I now have the situation where my eldest is 19, extremely mature and we can talk about anything from sex to the start of the world and religion. I truly have a great relationship with all of my kids.
Without having to touch them once unless it was a hug. Hugs heal and diffuse. And talk, talk, talk. Your hands were made for loving.