Childhood punishments= Cruel and Unusual

When I was about 7 I gained two step brothers and we would recieve group punishments by my mother if one of us screwed up.

She used to :

-Make us copy every scripture in the Bible about Repect ( even though we weren’t that religious)

-Make us cut the back yard with scissors ( we got lots of blisters on our hands)

-Even though I was 7 and they were 12 and 15, we got the time out, nose in the corner thing for periods of 30mins

-She used to threaten us by slamming wooden spoons on the counter or chasing after us with hairbrushes, hanger, …whatever was closest at the time

We got whacked with a metal yardstick.

We got slashed in two with a bread knife.

We used to get threatened with wooden spoons, a wooden paddle made specifically for paddling butts, and my dad’s belt. The sound of a belt being snapped struck abject terror into my youthful heart, despite the fact that he never ever hit me with it. Just the idea was enough to make me fall in line. I know I got whacked a couple times with the spoon or the paddle, although Mom denies it now.

I also got my mouth washed out with a bar of Ivory soap once for calling somebody a whore on the playground (I pronounced the W, so it came out “wore,” but she knew what I meant). I read the word in a book and didn’t know what it meant, only that it was an insult.

I still hate Ivory soap.

I wasn’t allowed to go to my best friend’s funeral.

In seventh grade, I got a B in French, and my father picked me up by the hair and kicked me in the stomach.

There were ‘undred and fify of oos livin’ in ‘t middle o’ road.
That’s the problem with kids of today, don’t know how lucky they are.

Oh where to begin.

Let’s see.

I was whipped until my skin welted (sp?) and sometimes bled with thin belts, I’d say on a weekly basis, but it was probably more like 2-3 times a week.

I was told to go outside to choose a branch (aka whip) from the weeping willow tree in our back yard, strip the leaves off of it, and hand it to my mother, who then proceeded to whip me with it, usually until I almost passed out from lack of breath.

I was made to kneel in the middle of my bedroom floor for an hour, after my mother sprinkled uncooked grains of rice on it.

I was threatened with forks held over the gas stove until they were red hot. (to be placed on my tongue if she suspected me of lying.)

I was thrown down the stairs.

I was punched in the face.

I’ve had just about anything you can imagine thrown at me (shoes were a favorite, and she was an excellent shot.)

I had any posessions I held dear to me destroyed. (Albums, posters, clothes, anything.)
I had clumps of hair pulled out, which would not only leave me with clumps of hair missing, but with lumps on my head that would last for days and days, which made brushing my hair quite painful.

I was beaten with a loaf of wonder bread.

I was called a whore, a bitch, a slut, a worthless piece of shit, and countless other insults from about the age of 10 or 11. That continued until I was in my mid-twenties.

My mother frequently reminded me how easy it would be for her to “make us go away” because she was a nurse, and had the access and know how to do just that.
Hmmmm, I think I’ll take a break.

Well, after Psycat’s post my whole “Abandoned at The Water Treatment Plant in the Middle of The Night” story suddenly seems pretty tame. Tuché.

Geez, these are all pretty spooky!

I only got spanked twice that I remember by my father, and once by the school principal. (And the ‘whys’ stuck with me: for crossing the road without permission, for throwing mudballs at passing cars [and hitting a bride on her way to her wedding through an open passenger window], and for throwing a rock at a kid who I felt was too rough while 2 dozen of us were playing ‘King of the Mountain’.)

Whipping branches, hangers, hair brushes? Are any of you Christine Crawford?

Yep, same here. And if the branch wasn’t good enough, Mom would pick one herself, and whip me twice, once with each branch.

My Dad preferred to use his belt, a thin, very worn and limber one. I would have bloody welts spiraling around my legs with large bruises where the buckle struck.

Interesting choice of weaponry. Is it worse than it would seem?

My dad used to get angry every other day, but half the time it was just bluster. However, the other half made me scared enough… He only used a belt once on me. More often, he’d hit me with his bare hands. Luckily, his work made him stay in his office much of the time.

Mom was worse. She’d hover around and nitpick over everything I’d do. If I pissed her off, she’d grab something nearby and threaten me with it. A couple of times, she made my kid sister go and get a broomstick. Once (though she denies it) she broke a bamboo rod over my backside. More often, she’d slap me across the face with her bare hands, or whip me with wire coat hangers.

Also, my parents often made me kneel in a corner, facing the wall (mostly my dad), or worse, “half-kneel”, holding my arms out perpendicular to my body. Traditional Chinese punishments like that.

Much of this happened every other week or so. Oddly enough, when one parent was mad, the other one usually wasn’t. Go figure.

Yep, I had it pretty cushy growing up, comparatively
Spanked a couple of times, paddled once or twice in school, and that’s about it.

Guess I don’t appreciate my folks enough!

Some of this stuff is horrible! I can’t imagine parents being so cruel.

This was not a punishment, per se, but I always thought it a little weird. And it taught me to not trust people when it comes to money (I pretty much got over it).

When I was 6, I went to my folks and suggested that I’d like a weekly allowance. Yes, I did my chores for free anyway.

They said “Okay, you will get whatever we agree upon…but it will remain the same for as long as you live here–and then it ends” …till age 18, of course. Fair enough, I thought.
We decided on a dollar a week.
At six (in 1965), I thought I’d struck gold.

At 17, (despite the increased workload), I was still getting one dollar a week.

never went on salary since,

Punishement of choice in my childhood was grounding, loss of allowance, or loss of phone use. We’d get spanked once in a while, but only with a bare hand. Guilt was ladled liberally.

I was aghast at a neighbor who hit her kids with a wooden spoon.

Some of the stuff related here absolutely sickens me…

I’m horrified that people would do these sorts of things!

We got spanked with a thick, wide belt that my father only used for the purpose until we were old enough to understand a lecture, and that was it. The lectures were bad enough because they were actually a dialogue: you had to explain why you’d done the incredibly stupid thing you’d just done.

Of course both my parents had ‘the look’–the one that stopped you dead in your tracks.

Ah yes - “the look”… the equivalent in my family was having your name called out in Polish. We didn’t have middle names, so our folks didn’t use the full-name-as-warning. But if they used our Polish names, we knew we were in deep trouble.

Hee. I got even.

Once, knowing that it was inevitable that I’d get caught, I stuck a cast-iron frying pan down the seat of my pants, and climbed up on to the counter to stick my hand in the cookie jar.

Sure enough, my mom walked in and saw me. With no warning shot whatsoever, she ran up, guns ablazin’, and gave my ass a smack.

She broke her hand.

That’s not punishment–that’s what we call “Dirty Pool”. And my sister and I call my mom the Queen of Dirty Pool.

My mom’s general MO was to promise me something WAYYYY in the future, counting on my either forgetting about it or changing my mind when the time came to make good on the promise.

My grandfather (mom’s father) owned/operated a janitorial service. One of his guys quit, or was fired, and so my mom offered to help out by taking on one of my grandfather’s clients.

I (a 6th grader) had to help her, and I HATED it with a bloody red passion. My mom promised that I could quit helping after a certain point (say, December). I’m sure she thought that by whatever point I was “allowed” to quit, my grandpa would have hired someone else anyway, so it would no longer be an issue.

This was not the case.

So when December came, and I gleefully informed her that I was not going to help her clean anymore, she said fine… but then she grounded me. No phone, no outings, no friends over, no nothin’ until I agreed to start helping her out again.

I was stubborn enough to take the grounding for a couple of weeks, but then our teacher assigned group projects that would have to be worked on outside of school (writing and performing a play together based on a researched historical event).

My mother refused to let me work on the project with my group (who were not even my friends, since the teacher chose the groups), because I was grounded. She said I’d just have to work on “my part” independently (yet threatened MORE trouble if I got less than a “B” on it).

So finally I caved, and started helping her out again, so that I could get UN-grounded and be able to do my homework. :rolleyes:

At the time, I wasn’t smart enough to RE-quit once the project had been completed…

Anyway, I feel kind of dumb telling that story after some of the horrible tales already posted! Just makes you lose faith in mankind. :frowning: