The time our father beat us with a belt

My two brothers and I were out of control. We would lay down facing the TV and accidentally (or not so accidentally) touch, that would lead to a push, leading to a harder push, which lead to wrestling, leading to fighting, leading to someone getting hurt and yelling.

My parents had enough!

Stop it! Stop your wrestling.”

We would stop for about 5 or 10 minutes, and a touch would lead to a push, leading to a punch, leading to wrestling and yelling. Every time we started again, it escalated faster.

Enough! I told you kids that’s enough.”

Our mother was getting upset. But again, one thing led to another. She had enough.

That’s it! I’m done with you kids. I told you to stop, and you just ignored me. This is the last time!” She told my father, “Get your belt!”

We screamed, “No, no, no, no! We’ll stop, we’ll stop! We won’t fight!”

“No, that’s it. I’ve told you kids over and over to stop wrestling, and now you’re going to get the belt!” She asked my father again to get the belt.

My father was holding us down on the carpet floor, and told my youngest brother, “Go to the closet, and get my belt! NOW!”

My youngest brother jumped up and ran to my parents room. My other brother and I lay on the floor pleading, “We’ll be good. Don’t hit us. We’ll be good.”

“No, enough is enough!” said my parents. We waited for a few minutes and realized that my youngest brother wasn’t coming back.

“Where is he?” It didn’t take long for my father to find him. He looked around in their bedroom and found my brother hiding . . . in the closet . . . underneath the belts.

My dad grabbed him around the waist, and grabbed a belt, and carried both of them to the living room. He put my brother down on the floor next to us. We wriggled around the floor while my dad tried to wrestle us together.

“Lay still! Lay still! I’m giving you a beating!” My father held us down with his knee and his other hand, and raised his belt over our back ends.

Right before my father his us with the belt, my mother said softly “Honey? . . . . Don’t hit them too hard . . . “

I saw the air rush out from my father’s anger. He brought down the belt and barely touched me. He did the same to my brother, and then the youngest. It was a slight slap that we didn’t really feel.

My brothers and I started giggling.


My youngest brother said, “Sure! If it’s like that, we do . . . “

My father looked at my mother and they started laughing. We all laughed.

My parents never hit us again.

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