Worst mom beating ever
In catechism we had just been through Mathew 25, and it was fresh in my mind. A bright saturday morning, I was reading in the living roiom while mom cleaned (Mom was always cleaning, ironing, or something) my sister came out into the living room (She must have been five) saying “Tastes icky” and holding up a can of toilet bowl cleaner. Mom immediately called Gloria, the RN down the street, and got an emetic and proceeded to make my sister puke up the whole contents of her stomach since 1971, the contents of the stomachs of the Hungarian Militia, and a couple of Matchbox cars.
Convinced the danger was out of the way, she commenced to wailing on me for leaving the bowl cleaner out (I would no more have done such a thing than the man in the moon, there were bottles of cleansers of all types, all over the house, ready for immediate spot cleaning of home, furniture, dog, cat, kid.)
So I felt quite put upon, having been tuned up for something I clearly didn’t do, and thought of the words of Jesus in Matthew:
‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
I voiced these words to my sister, who then repeated them to Mom. Mom, just coming off the near-fatal poisoning of one of her children, snapped.
Mom stomped into the bathroom and lifted me by one arm, and proceeded to ask me “AM * I * DOING * THIS * TO * JESUS?”
where each asterisk is an openhanded smack to some part of my anatomy. This went on for a very long time, at the end of which I was too enfeebled to do much but wriggle around at the end of my own arm.
I slept most of sunday recovering. This was the first time I got a mom asswhipping that dad didn’t follow with one of his own, and I wonder if it was because he felt she’d done enough for two or if I’d looked pathetic enough not to be retuned.
I want my Matchbox car back. The puke colored one.
Man, I damn near choked on my tea.
My brother got some good tune ups as he would laugh during the education session.
I got one once as I had just learned the words to hail to the chief. I guess my mom thought I was saying something else and when I did not quit on command I got a ligth tuning.
Maybe your calling is stand up?
I loved the visual on the emetic.
I’ve done standup, open mike nights & etc.
Nobody in that business isn’t messed up as can be, and I’m not as messed up as I have to be to fit in.
I dunno — I just don’t find this one that funny. Probably has to do with the “mom taking out her anger on a kid who had nothing to do with the incident” part.
The bit with scripture is hilarious, though.
“mom taking out her anger on a kid who had nothing to do with the incidentâ€
Joanna: Welcome to my life, then and now.
At least carbon fiber hadn’t been invented yet. Count your blessings, Og.
lol.
yep.
Mum was Irish as Patty’s Pig… with dark red hair and a temper to match. There was a one spatula that fit her hand quite well. It was her favorite tune-up tool.
Dad’s wrath was cooler, more to the point.
The one time I had trespassed with some unthinkable sin (or so Mary Kate surmised) and took that spatula to my hind end, I ran to the dining room buffet and pulled out one of Dad’s carving knives and turned on her. (I too have, or used to have, dark red hair.)
Face to face, a pissed 11 year old and his equally pissed Mum… She turned cold as ice. I dropped the knife and ran like hell, crying like a frikken baby.
Dad came home. Later that night we had a long talk. He didn’t beat me, nor did he say anything in anger.
Let’s just say that he talked to me man to man.
Mum never whupped me again, not physically anyway. Her Harpie’s tongue remained sharp until her last days.
Rites of Passage…not always purty or easy.
I spent many days wishing my Dad would get home early from work and save me from my Mother. She was a grade school teacher back when they were expected to whack kids when they needed it and she showed absolutely no mercy on her own offspring either. I miss her, wish she was here to knock some sense into my hard head.
I miss her, wish she was here to knock some sense into my hard head.
Nothing. I just thought that deserved repeating, for a lot of us here.
Sven, great story. I thought it was Paddy’s pig, though. Hell, I’m mostly german, shows what I know.
Dad gave some pretty memorable thrashings but Mom had him hands down. I will still firebomb any willow stump I find growing those thin switches.
One of the worst beatings I watched her administer was to my brother. He had pissed her off and was getting drug away by an arm. He was trying to pull away from Mom when she said “Come here you little son of a bitch”.
He looked her in the eye and said “If I am, it’s your fault”. You wouldn’t think someone laughing that hard could still swing like that.
Roger
I remember when I decided to stop listening to my mom; I could tune her right out. One day she finally had enough and went berserk. She sent me to my room to “think about what I had done” and then after my explanation she was going to beat me. My mom had never gone berserk or used the word “beat”. She then proceeded to call everyone on the phone to tell them what a righteous ass-whooping I was about to receive within earshot of my room. When the moment of truth came you could cut the tension with a knife. She hollers in my face “do you understand english”? I was young, I didn’t know what the fuck english was. I remember my mind racing through my limited vocabulary while my mom’s eyes drilled holes in me. I will never forget the feeling of dread or inevitability. The pressure to produce a right answer was enormous.
I told her I did not understand english.
When my dad got home our eyes met as soon as he walked through the door. He looked at me, he looked at my mom, and went into the bathroom.
I understand english now.
Jon
Sumpin about Mums… reading these stories. Bless y’all.
Og,
Patty or Paddy….depends on whether you are Irish National or Northern Irish. Don’t get me started!!!
Three years ago, come 15 July, Mum breathed her last. Her hand close in mine. THAT, beloved, was a moment in time I will never forget.
I miss her. The grief is deep.
Joanna;
Sometimes what seems at the time to be a rage-driven vengeance on an innocent child can have quite the salutary effect — as to be realized later. Plus, It never hurts to remind a child, especially one close to his majority, that parents do have fuses, and that too much sass and abrasion can wear them short.
As Bill Cosby reported his mother saying to him, “I brought you into this world; I can take you out of it.” Call it the Fear of God.
Having been on BOTH sides of those punishments, and having lived to tell the tales, I hereby attest to the truth of the above.
M
lol. Yup.
Trust me, gentle readers, at no time did I ever receive a beating I didn’t deserve- if not for the imagined infraction, then for another unreported one.