I just watched a video of a Texas judge whipping his daughter and it made me think of how I was punished as a child and how I punish my kids.
When I was small, from some of my earliest memories until I was 14, I was whipped with a belt when I disobeyed or lied (or was suspected of wrong doing). My mom would give the 4 of us kids a few licks with a belt that would upset us for a few minutes, but was effective in correcting our behavior.
That's what the video of the judge whipping his daughter looked like to me. She only seemed upset while he was hitting her legs with the belt. But the moment he stopped, she was no longer crying. That tells me he wasn't hitting her hard.
Now my dad, that's another story. He would leave bruises from the back of our knees all the way up our backs. He would snatch his belt off and say "Put your hands on the (table/chair/wall/couch)" and we did it immediately. We knew that the faster we complied, the sooner the pain would end. Even if we couldn't sit down after, at least we could get out of his sight and get comfort from our mom or each other.
I hated my dad for years because of how he beat us. He would yell and call us stupid or niggers or trash or whatever else he could think of. He made sure to break our spirits before we had a chance to position ourselves for the beating. Then he'd bring his arm back as far as he could and swing with all of his might so that the belt wrapped around our legs or hips or waist.
That's the part that really stung. It would swell up and bruise so quickly that when he hit that spot again, sometimes it would bleed.
I remember when I was in the second grade I showed my friend a really bad bruise on my thigh and she told my teacher who (I found out recently) called my mom about it. It was the only time I had ever shown someone other than my sisters or brother one of my bruises. My friend's reaction made me afraid to show anyone else. I didn't want my dad to find out and whip me again.
Then, when I was 8, my dad came home and my brother was at the neighbor's house. Dad was furious and made me go get him. So I ran over there, but he wasn't there. About 15 minutes later I saw him walk into the yard and walked out to warn him that Dad was mad and was looking for him.
He beat my brother for the next 30 minutes. My sister and I sat in her room, huddled together, counting the licks my brother received between my dad's rantings.
I begged God to make it stop.
We counted 56 licks, I think.
Then mom came home and they started fighting, again. They fought non stop (he abused her as well)
While they were distracted, I ran to my brother's room and just help him as he shook. He had tears but didn't seem to know it.
My brother has always been my hero, and it hurt my heart to see him in so much pain.
Soon after that my parents finally divorced.
My dad beat my brother less (he had always been my dad's target) and turned his wrath on me. Apparently I was the reason things went missing (he once shattered his door and said he'd do that to me if I didn't give back the measuring cup I "stole") or was dirty.
He started saying he wished he could shoot me and throw me in the dumpster so he wouldn't have to deal with me.
Over the next few years I did everything I could to try to make him proud of me. Nothing worked. He just seemed to hate me more and more. He even called me a whore because I went for a walk alone at my mom's house. He said I could never see her again.
So I read their divorce papers (he violated a lot of the stuff in there!) and saw that I could choose who I wanted to live with once I turned 14.
Soon after my 14th birthday I told my sister to take me to my mom's house cause I was never going to live with my dad again. She refused. So I told her "Just let me get my clothes from there, then!"
As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I said "Bye!" and jumped out.
She told me dad would be mad, but I told her I didn't care, there was nothing he could do.
Later that night there was a knock at the door. I opened it and my dad hit me with a belt. He told me to put my hands on the door and he hit me again. I turned to him and yelled "DON'T EVER HIT ME AGAIN!" It was the first time I really stood up to him.
That time the belt wrapped around my wrist when he swung it. It hurt so bad.
He made me go get my clothes and go to his house.
It was the last time I spent the night at his house.
I love my dad because he is my dad. But I have no desire to be near him. I also have no desire to have my kids near him.
He has apologized in recent years, and I have forgiven him. I understand why he was the way he was. He was a weak minded man that couldn't get past his own abuse from his childhood. He couldn't get past the fact that he became an unwilling father at 17 to a woman he never loved. And he probably never really loved the 4 of his kids. And I'm ok with that now.
I accept that there will never be a real relationship between us. It still hurts sometimes because I had hoped that one day he could be a real father. But its only a sadness for what could have been, not what was.
And the way I was raised has had an effect on the way I discipline my kids.
It absolutely breaks my heart to whip my son, so I do it as little as possible. I've learned to channel my anger and talk it out with him instead of flying off the handle. When he does get whipped, I calmly sit him down and explain why he's getting it, he gets a few licks, then I hold him and make sure he understands that I only want him to learn right from wrong. Then I usually walk away and cry.
It will be the same with my daughter.
There is a right way to whip. And I believe whipping is good. It shows a child that doing wrong will result in a bad consequence.
But moderation is key. Its never ok to hit your child just because you're mad. Its never ok to bruise your child. And its never ok to make your child feel unloved or like they are less than an amazing human being.
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