Punishment!

In the farthest reaches of my memory, I remember dad spanking me once.

Something about being taken out of sacrament meeting and spanked.

Misbehaving, ME?

Every parent is allowed one offense in terms of unnecessary punishment--a freebie, if you will. He used it when I was three or four. Since then, he had other methods for punishment, all of which I try to remember now that I'm a parent because they were effective and loving.

My room was always a mess. I didn't appreciate that I lived right down the hall from my parents' bedroom, so my dad could always peek in, be horrified by the mess, and tell me to clean it up. Wisely, he'd give me a deadline. "I want this cleaned up by the time I come home from work!" (I learned to lock my door when I was gone and keep a toothpick hidden in the carpet so he couldn't just open it on a whim and tell me to clean it)

Although I moaned and grumbled, yea, even murmured, I understood his point. I couldn't even find my own shoes and my under-the-bed "storage" was too full to shove anything else under there. I appreciated, even through the fog that was grouchy teenager-hood, the good naturedness of my dad to give me a deadline instead of a "NOW!" in your face, battle-of-the-wills-initiating demand.

And I won't make a big issue, fifteen years later, of the dead and buried fact that it was much harder and rarer for my dad to walk purposefully to the other side of the house, up the stairs, to Cathryn's room to ask her to clean hers, or around the corner to check if Carl's room was spotless. Nor did I make mention of this to my dad at the time, who I knew would say, "Just worry about yourself!"

Ugh that phrase! Ugh that I use that with my own children today!
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Other punishments:
Because I was the baby of the family, a widespread fear existed that I might be...spoiled! Heaven Forbid! Spoiled! Me? No possible. Nope, I don't think so.

In the unrevisioned history of our family, dad asked me to do the dishes often once I was old enough. One time he asked me to do the dishes upon leaving, and said he wanted them done by the time he got back. I said no (a girl can only handle so much!) and he sent me to my room and left.

I went out and played until I heard the garage door opening again, whereupon I sprinted to my room.

I guess my dad came in to hear my footsteps pounding through the house (light-footed, I am not) and came straight to my room, where I innocently and breathlessly pretended to be in the middle of an intense, soap opera-esque Barbie story. He told me he knew exactly what I did, and I had to go and do the dishes now!

And I did.
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On Christmas Eve morning we went to Safeway (Safeway!) and got some groceries. Dad told me to bring them in. I forgot, perhaps? A few hours later dad came to me and said very seriously, "Susie? Did you bring in the groceries when I asked?"
I shook my head. Uh-oh.
"Does Santa bring presents to kids who don't do what they're told?"
I shook my head again. Tears welled in my eyes and poured over. Then I went straight to the garage and brought in all the groceries, hoping against hope that Santa would ignore this one infraction and still bring me my presents!
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Another time he asked me to do the dishes and I cried at the injustice of it. So he helped me. (Carl and Cathryn, where were you?)
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At the end of one summer I painted the outside of the house (child labor laws, anyone?). It took me a few days of off and on work, and at the end I just had the highest parts of the house to do. It hurt my arms and my eyes and I was tired. So I cried. And dad painted the rest while I kept him company. And that was a highlight of my childhood--keeping dad company while he fixed toilets, the sprinklers outside (call out to me when they come on!), repainted rooms, and fixed the wooden chairs in our house with strong glue.
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I had to clean the "big bath." I cleaned it whiningly and my dad inspected it and found it lacking (high standards, that one). He tried to get me to scrub the toilet harder. I cried (story of my life) and so he softened his voice and just showed me. Believe it or not, my tears were all real and not manipulative.
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Dad knew our penchant for tp-ing. When I had sleepovers, he'd make me promise that I wouldn't go out with my friends. I'd do everything I could to reassure him I wouldn't go without promising. In the end, he'd make me promise. And because I respected and loved him so much, my promise was binding. I couldn't do other than what he'd asked of me because of that respect. And to me, that's the real lesson of parenting and punishment. It's not a battle of wills and "because I said so!" although dad liked that line, it was never forced on us, it was out of respect and love for my dad that I did what I was told. Now why doesn't my two year old have that kind of respect for me and stop hitting kids and taking off his poopy diapers?!