Moms now vs back then
- Thread starter Gunfighter14e2
- Start date
“Come here so I can slap you.”
My mom’s favorite. Not sure which side it would be on.
My mom’s favorite. Not sure which side it would be on.
My wife says:
- You’re gonna get a spanking
- Go sit in timeout and cry
Kid stops acting like an idiot after either one of those sentences.
- You’re gonna get a spanking
- Go sit in timeout and cry
Kid stops acting like an idiot after either one of those sentences.
“I brought you into this world and I’ll take you out of it”
My Mom was a raging abusive tyrant. More than once my Dad, a WWII vet stepped in to stop her. He created rules like “no hitting in the head”. She broke those rules when he was not around. I watched her dislocate my brother’s jaw once with a pitcher she threw at him across the room…. As a young child when my Mom would fly into a rage I would hide under the dining room table. When I got older I would not cry as she lashed me with a leather belt. On more than one occasion my father came in to her lashing me with then intent on making me cry and yelled “ what the hell are you doing”??
My Dad never ever hit us kids. After the War he was a drill sergeant.
When Dad spoke no one questioned. His authority came from respect.
By contrast I never hit my daughter. She knew punishment and I was creative. She learned what the corner looked like and saw it when needed. As a single father I was most often accused of being too strict (by women of course) my daughter turned out to be the most beautiful, wonderful, respectful person I know. She has been a natural and gifted mother, and now cares for other special needs kids that she brings into her home. She is the example of a great mom and her kids, my grandkids, are proofing in the pudding.
Abuse and discipline are not the same. My fellow boomers need to get this through their thick skulls.
I sent the below video to my brother with no comment. He sent a one word reply……… “Memories”
My Dad never ever hit us kids. After the War he was a drill sergeant.
When Dad spoke no one questioned. His authority came from respect.
By contrast I never hit my daughter. She knew punishment and I was creative. She learned what the corner looked like and saw it when needed. As a single father I was most often accused of being too strict (by women of course) my daughter turned out to be the most beautiful, wonderful, respectful person I know. She has been a natural and gifted mother, and now cares for other special needs kids that she brings into her home. She is the example of a great mom and her kids, my grandkids, are proofing in the pudding.
Abuse and discipline are not the same. My fellow boomers need to get this through their thick skulls.
I sent the below video to my brother with no comment. He sent a one word reply……… “Memories”
That was when I knew I went way too far.
Now a funny story:
My twin brother and I, both in our mid teens were being berated by Mom because she had found a couple of playboys in our bedroom. On and on she went, as my brother and I sat red-faced in utter embarrassment. Meanwhile my Dad sat drinking his coffee and reading the paper at the head of the dining room table.
Finally she yells “Shirley” (yes my dad’s name was Shirley in case you’re wondering why he was so tough.) “Say something to them.!!”
Dad folds his paper as we sit mortified, waiting. He leans back and says “I only have one thing to say to you boys. (Pause)……I wish you’d get some new ones cause I’m getting damn tired of looking at the same ones over and over.”
My brother and I in shock, our jaws dropped, looked at Mom and her face beet red. “Shirley, what are you teaching these kids!!!”
“Come on boys we have work to do”….. As he stood while my brother and I busted out laughing…..
My twin brother and I, both in our mid teens were being berated by Mom because she had found a couple of playboys in our bedroom. On and on she went, as my brother and I sat red-faced in utter embarrassment. Meanwhile my Dad sat drinking his coffee and reading the paper at the head of the dining room table.
Finally she yells “Shirley” (yes my dad’s name was Shirley in case you’re wondering why he was so tough.) “Say something to them.!!”
Dad folds his paper as we sit mortified, waiting. He leans back and says “I only have one thing to say to you boys. (Pause)……I wish you’d get some new ones cause I’m getting damn tired of looking at the same ones over and over.”
My brother and I in shock, our jaws dropped, looked at Mom and her face beet red. “Shirley, what are you teaching these kids!!!”
“Come on boys we have work to do”….. As he stood while my brother and I busted out laughing…..
Don’t beat them, it leaves marks.
Hold them underwater. It’s an elegant solution.
Hold them underwater. It’s an elegant solution.
I recall one time my brother and I were standing next to the upper cabinets in the kitchen and my mom reached above us to get something out of the cabinet. We both ducked and side stepped with cat like reflexes. We were not physically abused as kids......we just got physically and mentally beat on the regular.
Just my opinion, but if you don't have mental scars from childhood, you're probably a little less than a man! Physically strong is one thing, mentally strong is something many people lack today. I'd never put a child through what we endured, but it has definintely helped me be successful in life!
Just my opinion, but if you don't have mental scars from childhood, you're probably a little less than a man! Physically strong is one thing, mentally strong is something many people lack today. I'd never put a child through what we endured, but it has definintely helped me be successful in life!
Growing up going to Catholic schools most of us young boys took a licking from some nun or brother only to get it again once we got home. Father's favorite was a Sam Brown belt and my Mother's a wooden spoon. To be honest most of the time I deserved it for doing the stupid shit adolescent boys do.
I think I ate more Ivory soap than the entire family used-shit didn't fucking work I tell you!
That was my mom's favorite.
She seldom beat me herself, she was more into psychological warfare.
My dad's favorite was whatever was whatever he could pick up the quickest.
If nothing suitable was within reach he'd wear me out with them big pot roast sized hands of his.
I'm convinced that's a big contributing factor to my lower back problems....
Thinking you have to abuse kids to make them “mentally strong” makes you a mental defective, not a parent.
Mental defectives produce kids that can go either way. Tough or school shooter. It is a wild card. Our society has far too many of these sociopaths running around.
My Mom was abused as a child. Her mom was brutally abused as a child. There is no surprise that she abused.
All the time I see folks saying that “only if the kids were hit more”. Newsflash, a good many kids that end up in prison were abused and beaten as a child.
I had to learn to control that rage as an adult. It damn near killed me. I was not tough because I was beaten. I was tough because of my Dad, his wisdom and strength. A true man that didn’t need to beat his kids to get his point across.
Martial arts, climbing, motorcycling, solo mountaineering,the death of my brothers, facing my fears, those were the things that made me mentally tough as I grew older. Those were the things that became the parts of me that are good for society. The rage that I’ll always carry because of mother’s rage has been a little use to anyone and has been a wolf that’s needed to be kept on a leash. We should think twice about giving our kids wolves.
Children often will abuse animals until they are taught the wisdom of being a teacher, instead of an abuser.
Mental defectives produce kids that can go either way. Tough or school shooter. It is a wild card. Our society has far too many of these sociopaths running around.
My Mom was abused as a child. Her mom was brutally abused as a child. There is no surprise that she abused.
All the time I see folks saying that “only if the kids were hit more”. Newsflash, a good many kids that end up in prison were abused and beaten as a child.
I had to learn to control that rage as an adult. It damn near killed me. I was not tough because I was beaten. I was tough because of my Dad, his wisdom and strength. A true man that didn’t need to beat his kids to get his point across.
Martial arts, climbing, motorcycling, solo mountaineering,the death of my brothers, facing my fears, those were the things that made me mentally tough as I grew older. Those were the things that became the parts of me that are good for society. The rage that I’ll always carry because of mother’s rage has been a little use to anyone and has been a wolf that’s needed to be kept on a leash. We should think twice about giving our kids wolves.
Children often will abuse animals until they are taught the wisdom of being a teacher, instead of an abuser.
Yeah....That one was the worst or best psychological warfare mom knew how to play. Told to me AFTER i got my mouth washed with soap for saying "Shit." My blessed mom deserved the Medal of Honor for putting up with me.
As much as I don't want to admit it.....I gotta take ownership too. I talked back more than once and got 2 or 3 leather belt lashings for corrective action(obviously nothing more than what was needed. Thanks dad!! I appreciate it now). Mom didn't think my sarcasm was as funny as I thought it was back then. At 37, i still cannot resist a sarcastic talk back when the situation warrants a smart ass remark 
My mom knocked both my brothers front teeth out beating him with her purse. The army fixed them after he joined. She loved to tell us time and time again how she wished she could cut our heads off. She said she hated kids and hated her kids most of all.
She hated my dad too. She would tell us over and over that he was old and would probably die soon,lol. He was a pervert who married a 18yo slut when he was 38. A few years younger than her dad. He loved a big tits 18yo brunette. He was 40 when I was born.
My mother had 8 years of Home Economics classes and could not make toast, always burnt fucking black. Eggs scrambled and dark brown and bacon cooked to ash was her best meal. We each ate our weight in Mac and cheese annually. The best years of my childhood occurred after I learned to cook and do my own laundry.
We got beat for damn near anything. If we mowed a neighbors yard or raked leaves for money she beat you and took half. "Mower rent" was what she called it. For Halloween the bitch ate every scrap of chocolate from all three kids in one night. If you wanted a fun size Snickers you better eat it on the fly. If she caught you eating you own fucking candy watch out, a bash in the face was coming.
About 7th grade I manned up and stood my ground. It slowed down a bit. My dad tried to say something and I told him to send me to foster care or get her away. Two years later they divorced. I had a job and was going to school and could have cared less.
Mom's are not all like Mrs Cleaver. Mine was closer to Charles Manson. Haha. Lucky I grew up perfectly normal with no issues.
She hated my dad too. She would tell us over and over that he was old and would probably die soon,lol. He was a pervert who married a 18yo slut when he was 38. A few years younger than her dad. He loved a big tits 18yo brunette. He was 40 when I was born.
My mother had 8 years of Home Economics classes and could not make toast, always burnt fucking black. Eggs scrambled and dark brown and bacon cooked to ash was her best meal. We each ate our weight in Mac and cheese annually. The best years of my childhood occurred after I learned to cook and do my own laundry.
We got beat for damn near anything. If we mowed a neighbors yard or raked leaves for money she beat you and took half. "Mower rent" was what she called it. For Halloween the bitch ate every scrap of chocolate from all three kids in one night. If you wanted a fun size Snickers you better eat it on the fly. If she caught you eating you own fucking candy watch out, a bash in the face was coming.
About 7th grade I manned up and stood my ground. It slowed down a bit. My dad tried to say something and I told him to send me to foster care or get her away. Two years later they divorced. I had a job and was going to school and could have cared less.
Mom's are not all like Mrs Cleaver. Mine was closer to Charles Manson. Haha. Lucky I grew up perfectly normal with no issues.
Came home once to the 4 year old son crying. I asked:” want me to give you a reason to cry?”
Answer: “mom already did”
Commence hysterical laughter.
Answer: “mom already did”
Commence hysterical laughter.
I had asthma as a child. Some severe allergies. Shots every few weeks. That being said, I was a 7 year old boy and do what boys do. My younger brother and I were at a baby sitter's house while my mother and our first step-father, Gerald, a second class boiler tech aboard the USS Ogden, went somewhere for a few hours.
The baby sitter was busy on the phone. My brother and I found a plastic lid from a butter tub and we were outside tossing it back and forth like a frisbee. To make it even cooler, we would put some dirt on it to watch it go "puff!" into flight.
My mother and and step-father came to pick us up and I was in big trouble, I was not supposed to play in the dirt.
We got home and my step-father had one of those wide leather belts that were popular in around 1971. I know it was more than 10 licks but I don't recall more than 15. He asked if I was going to do that again.
Like an idiot, I answered truthfully. I knew I was a kid prone to forget safety and would probably get into dirt again without thinking. I said "Yes. Sir, probably so."
He took that as impudence and gave me another 10 - 15 lashings.
He asked the question again and this time, I learned. I told him what he wanted to hear. I said that I would not do that again.
The skin on behind was blistered and peeling and black and blue bruises were arising. And this was through two layers, cotton underwear and dungarees (cut for a kid.)
I could not sit down for a number of days. I had to eat standing up.
I learned to tell the grown ups what they wanted to hear.
Another time, when I was 16, we were at the dinner table with our second step-father (friend of the first.) Richard was a truck driver but he was formerly a Marine who got medicaled out. Anyway, he kind of looked at the moment like Garfield the Cat but I could not say that. But I was snickering. My mom wanted to know what was so funny but I would not tell her.
She slapped face hard enough to make the skin momentarily numb. But that was the last time she took a hand to me. I was 6' 5" by then, about 230 and her hand hurt for a number of days (she had RA as a teenager.)
But I do agree that children need discipline and guidelines. Seize the phones and games.
Anyway, so, I grew up and have worked as an electrician with plenty of time knee-deep in a ditch pitching dirt around with a shovel.
And grew out of most of my asthma symptoms or medication.
The baby sitter was busy on the phone. My brother and I found a plastic lid from a butter tub and we were outside tossing it back and forth like a frisbee. To make it even cooler, we would put some dirt on it to watch it go "puff!" into flight.
My mother and and step-father came to pick us up and I was in big trouble, I was not supposed to play in the dirt.
We got home and my step-father had one of those wide leather belts that were popular in around 1971. I know it was more than 10 licks but I don't recall more than 15. He asked if I was going to do that again.
Like an idiot, I answered truthfully. I knew I was a kid prone to forget safety and would probably get into dirt again without thinking. I said "Yes. Sir, probably so."
He took that as impudence and gave me another 10 - 15 lashings.
He asked the question again and this time, I learned. I told him what he wanted to hear. I said that I would not do that again.
The skin on behind was blistered and peeling and black and blue bruises were arising. And this was through two layers, cotton underwear and dungarees (cut for a kid.)
I could not sit down for a number of days. I had to eat standing up.
I learned to tell the grown ups what they wanted to hear.
Another time, when I was 16, we were at the dinner table with our second step-father (friend of the first.) Richard was a truck driver but he was formerly a Marine who got medicaled out. Anyway, he kind of looked at the moment like Garfield the Cat but I could not say that. But I was snickering. My mom wanted to know what was so funny but I would not tell her.
She slapped face hard enough to make the skin momentarily numb. But that was the last time she took a hand to me. I was 6' 5" by then, about 230 and her hand hurt for a number of days (she had RA as a teenager.)
But I do agree that children need discipline and guidelines. Seize the phones and games.
Anyway, so, I grew up and have worked as an electrician with plenty of time knee-deep in a ditch pitching dirt around with a shovel.
And grew out of most of my asthma symptoms or medication.
The absolute worst was when my mom dropped her head and walked away.
All you have to do is look around and see the failures from parenting going back to WW2. I would be real carefully throwing shade when you come from an generation of blue haired faggots who are mostly liberal.
I don't have a relationship with my parents. When I moved out, I never looked back and have had no contact with them. However, I am blessed that they are gen-Xers and not boomers.
This thread is sad for some it sounds like. But quite funny as well.
I now work in a shop that is next to one of the places we spent while growing up.
This willow I just took a pic of has provided many hours of climbing fun, but also contributed a fair number of switches to my back side. This tree belongs to someone else now. Mom taught me how to pick a nice switch. Lol
The tree that helped me be.
I now work in a shop that is next to one of the places we spent while growing up.
This willow I just took a pic of has provided many hours of climbing fun, but also contributed a fair number of switches to my back side. This tree belongs to someone else now. Mom taught me how to pick a nice switch. Lol
The tree that helped me be.
I was a free range kid in the 80s. My parents did not want to be parents so refused to participate. I was pretty raised and fed by the parents of my friends and my uncle. I pretty much did whatever the f@#$ I wanted. Weirdly, it had the effect of making me act like a decent human. Do not get me wrong, I caused my share of chaos and heart ache however those occassions were rare.
Ed Kemper is a prime example of what a domineering overbearing mom can create. One of the women he killed he buried her head in the yard facing up to his mom’s upstairs bedroom window cause as he said “she always wanted people to look up to her.” In the end he bludgeoned her with a hammer then molested her corpse and killed her best friend. Yes it’s an extreme example, but still a fact that happens. Somewhere if a male becomes a good man, he found a man that became a role model to him. It takes a man to make a man. I’m glad I had a good mom (even if she did wash my mouth with soap) and I’m just as thankful for a dad that taught me and my brothers to be men. Yes, my mom falls in the right side of that list from the op
Haha! It was always a challenge to get the right switch! I tried getting a too flimsy switch and mom made me go back out for a better one
My mother used to fly into a rage and then start in with a belt. The only times she ever got dad involved; it was a psyop. She'd get him all worked up and launch him at me, just to "save" me from him at the last minute.
I forget how old I was, but one time when she was swinging the belt I just locked eyes with her and stared hard. She finally asked me why I wasn't crying. I told her that if I loved her, I probably would be.
I don't know how I knew that would hurt her, but it damn sure did.
As a postscript: Neither I or my brother or sister ever had kids. That's how we broke the cycle.
I forget how old I was, but one time when she was swinging the belt I just locked eyes with her and stared hard. She finally asked me why I wasn't crying. I told her that if I loved her, I probably would be.
I don't know how I knew that would hurt her, but it damn sure did.
As a postscript: Neither I or my brother or sister ever had kids. That's how we broke the cycle.
My mom was okay, but fairly manipulative. My dad was a bit of a pervert, I was always careful to not get too close to him. I could tell way back then that he had strange sexual tendencies. Fortunately my mom protected me a lot. After 22 yo, never spoke to my father again. Mother I spoke to starting about 30 years later, waited until my dad died before I would make contact.
lol, my mom used to tell my older sisters to get something to beat me with.
my sisters were in a pickle, because they could get in trouble if they brought something that broke too easily.
didn't really matter. my mom was pretty small and unable to inflict any real damage with a yardstick (or whatever).
it was inevitable that my father would administer the real punishment when he got home from work.
/i rarely got into trouble. mostly it was fighting with my older brother.
we had a nun at Blessed Sacrament that used the edge of the ruler across the knuckles.
you have to be retarded to need more than one lesson from her.
Very first day of first grade, Ms. Glafcey introduced me to that same ruler,...
Mom nor dad whipped us but maybe 1 or twice total, we were quick studies on how not to get caught. My great uncle on the other hand could dish out punishment on the farm in so many ways w/o touching us, we would have rather been beat,...
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lol, my mom used to tell my older sisters to get something to beat me with.
my sisters were in a pickle, because they could get in trouble if they brought something that broke too easily.
didn't really matter. my mom was pretty small and unable to inflict any real damage with a yardstick (or whatever).
it was inevitable that my father would administer the real punishment when he got home from work.
/i rarely got into trouble. mostly it was fighting with my older brother.
Mom was 5’1” and wielded a switch as well as Athos did a rapier. Dad preferred size 36 cowhide. I earned only two from my father. The memory stuck with you for a while. If I didn’t get a switching a day from mom, I thought she was sick.
When I was about five, I was (as adults at the time would say) “showing my behind” in Mack’s Five and Dime. My 4’6” grandmother beat me in a circle using a flyswatter she picked up. I’m certain every adult in eyesight or earshot thought, “He had that coming.” DCF be damned.
In third grade, Ms Baker used a fly back paddle. She would walk to your desk, make you stick your leg out and pop you on the thigh. The things you still remember after over six decades.
My Mom was a widow raising 4 kids plus she was really small. If we really effed up she would tell us in a deep voice “ I’ll knock your lung out “ !!
I remember when my late wife and our son got into it one afternoon in 1987 (he was 10YO going on 30) She was a 5'1" red headed nurse..
Son,... I'll call child protective services on you.
Wife,.. the phones right there, but know this, As your mom I can't be your nurse, if you live,...
Son,... I'll call child protective services on you.
Wife,.. the phones right there, but know this, As your mom I can't be your nurse, if you live,...
Yeah, good old memoties.
She only stopped if it snapped.
Was happy when all wooden ones were gone, cause the plastic one broke sooner.
Wasnt to often thoug, but still today i dont mind physical pain to certain degree.
I am raising my daughters differently. But a little reminder here or there works wonders if they push it way to far.
From a different tangent...
My father believed in wall-to-wall negotiations, to get things started, warmed up, and a good head-of-steam going.
Then, when I finally hit the floor, the punches would start.
Then I'd get thrown onto my bed.
Then he'd finally administer his belt, to which he held onto the notch-end, and I'd get hit with the buckle.
Black and blue and bleeding and broken,,,, I thought it was 'normal'.
These things happened only when he'd been drinking. So every Friday night, after the guests went home the festivities would start.
Sometimes Saturday's.
Tuesdays and Wednesday's were a good bet too.
I shit you not,,,, I was 25 before that knot in my stomach finally went away. Going through life daily, "afraid to go home...." was an actual thing.
THAT CYCLE ended with me.
My father believed in wall-to-wall negotiations, to get things started, warmed up, and a good head-of-steam going.
Then, when I finally hit the floor, the punches would start.
Then I'd get thrown onto my bed.
Then he'd finally administer his belt, to which he held onto the notch-end, and I'd get hit with the buckle.
Black and blue and bleeding and broken,,,, I thought it was 'normal'.
These things happened only when he'd been drinking. So every Friday night, after the guests went home the festivities would start.
Sometimes Saturday's.
Tuesdays and Wednesday's were a good bet too.
I shit you not,,,, I was 25 before that knot in my stomach finally went away. Going through life daily, "afraid to go home...." was an actual thing.
THAT CYCLE ended with me.
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