”What do you think your punishment should be?” my mother asked.
After years of watching my mother smoke, I decided to try it. With a pack stolen from my parents, my friend Brad and I hid in the crawlspace and puffed away. We thought we were safe and secure, but we hadn’t counted on Dad coming down to work on the furnace. We hid around the corner, undetected until Dad began to sing and we couldn’t help giggling. Dad caught us and sent us upstairs, leaving abundant evidence behind us.
Now, I faced my mom and the inevitable consequences. I knew I was caught and would be disciplined. My only goal was to avoid Mom’s worst punishment: washing out my mouth with soap.
“What do you think your punishment should be?” Mom asked again. For a brief moment, my hope surged.
“I think I should be grounded,” I answered in a suitably meek and penitent voice.
“No, I don’t think that’s enough,” Mom answered.
I gave up, knowing that what came next was as inevitable as dark at night. I rose from my bed and walked to the bathroom where my sentence would be carried out with my shoulders slumped in resignation. Mom paused just a moment, then followed me and administered the punishment. I didn’t fight or struggle. I knew I had earned this and just accepted it.
“That punishment was the hardest for me to give to you,” she confessed years later when I was an adult. “I knew you had it coming, but you knew it too and that nearly broke my heart. Even worse, I knew that I wasn’t a good example, but I had to do it to keep you from smoking.”
Love makes moms do what they have to do. I still don’t smoke.
Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.