Parenting is a skillset all to itself. Caring for, educating and just keeping a child alive are not the easiest things in the world. It goes without saying that knowing how to discipline a child has been and remains a hot topic.
#1
My father had a unique and effective method of punishment, and I've thanked him for it at every opportunity.
If we misbehaved, the default punishment was no TV or computer privileges for a week. This could be anything from name-calling to lying to refusing to walk the dog. A week without entertainment.
But here's the cool part. We would be absolved of our crimes if we created some work of art for him. He'd accept drawings, or songs, or even dance routines, as long as they weren't half-a**ed. They all started out terrible, but over time all of us kids developed a real interest in our endeavors and went on to become pretty damn decent. I've been going to school on a piano scholarship for two years and my sister is a talented ballet dancer.
But the best part is that my dad saved all the work we did over the years and has folders and folders of paintings and drawings along with hours of videotaped performances. My mom says he goes through his collection many times a year.
Thanks, dad.
If we misbehaved, the default punishment was no TV or computer privileges for a week. This could be anything from name-calling to lying to refusing to walk the dog. A week without entertainment.
But here's the cool part. We would be absolved of our crimes if we created some work of art for him. He'd accept drawings, or songs, or even dance routines, as long as they weren't half-a**ed. They all started out terrible, but over time all of us kids developed a real interest in our endeavors and went on to become pretty damn decent. I've been going to school on a piano scholarship for two years and my sister is a talented ballet dancer.
But the best part is that my dad saved all the work we did over the years and has folders and folders of paintings and drawings along with hours of videotaped performances. My mom says he goes through his collection many times a year.
Thanks, dad.
118points
#2
I’ve been waiting for this!
Okay, I’m an only child and I have several chronic illnesses. Not to mention my mom can’t have any more kids. Because of all that, my parents loved to spoil and baby me. It drove me crazy but now I realized how lucky I am. Anyways, my mom was really bad at dealing out punishments.
One time I snuck out to pick up my drunk friend. I made it to where he was and back to his house but got caught sneaking back into my house. My mom was a master at sneaking in and out of her house when she was a teen so, when she couldn’t find me, she checked the places she would have snuck in. Found me and brought me into the living room where she paced back and fourth and wagged her pointer finger at me. Then she said, and I quote, “Cocoa! Sneaking out? That’s it I’m gonna… gonna… take away your cat!! For a whole day!!!”
She put my cat in her room, planning on giving me it back before I went to bed. After dinner, my dad went upstairs to take a shower. He opened the door and my cat ran out. Then, my dad yelled, “Girls!!!” We ran upstairs. The cat had sh*t all over the room.
My dad managed punishments after that.
Okay, I’m an only child and I have several chronic illnesses. Not to mention my mom can’t have any more kids. Because of all that, my parents loved to spoil and baby me. It drove me crazy but now I realized how lucky I am. Anyways, my mom was really bad at dealing out punishments.
One time I snuck out to pick up my drunk friend. I made it to where he was and back to his house but got caught sneaking back into my house. My mom was a master at sneaking in and out of her house when she was a teen so, when she couldn’t find me, she checked the places she would have snuck in. Found me and brought me into the living room where she paced back and fourth and wagged her pointer finger at me. Then she said, and I quote, “Cocoa! Sneaking out? That’s it I’m gonna… gonna… take away your cat!! For a whole day!!!”
She put my cat in her room, planning on giving me it back before I went to bed. After dinner, my dad went upstairs to take a shower. He opened the door and my cat ran out. Then, my dad yelled, “Girls!!!” We ran upstairs. The cat had sh*t all over the room.
My dad managed punishments after that.
57points
#3
When my father was disappointed with my grades, I was forced to wear hawaiian shirts to school.
51points
#4
When I was 4, my birth mother married my stepfather. This is when the brutal abuse started. We truly lived in a horror house. The following event took place in the summers of 1961 and 1962. A bit of detail, the children of my birth mother and stepfather had daycare, my sister and I did not. It had always been this way. I was 11 and my sister was 14 when the following took place.
Anyway, my stepfather had come home unexpectedly early and caught my sister playing their stereo. There was truly Hell to pay. Amidst the yelling, screaming, and calling her vile things (c*nt, b*tch, sl*t, and so on) he slapped my sister several times. I was included in the festivities because I was an accomplice and received a full on beating. So far, same old, same old.
The next morning we were told to pack lunches and fill a thermos with water. We rode out to the base where both my parents worked. When we pulled into the large parking lot of the building they worked in and were told that since we couldn’t behave ourselves, we could spend the day in the car and God help us if we got out. My stepfather’s office was on the 3rd floor and he could see the car. No arrangements were made for using the restroom. I opened the door on the far side of the car to relieve myself, we opened both doors to give my sister a measure of privacy. The car had roll down windows, so that was a plus.
A one day punishment? Oh no, that just would not do. We spent 7 weeks or so in that damn car, up until school started. When that happened, we were locked out of the house from when our parents left for work until they came home, after they picked their kids up from daycare, of course. It wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds as I could easily break into the house when the mood hit. My sister stayed at a friend’s house. I wandered around, stealing stuff and setting fields on fire. By this time in my life, I had a few maladaptive behaviors, shame on me (said with much sarcasm.
The following summer was more of the same car routine. We found ways to entertain ourselves, going so far as to sneaking a deck of cards into the car. Around mid-summer, my stepfather’s boss, a full bird colonel, caught on to what was happening and said it needed to stop. We spent the rest of that summer left to our own devices, locked out of the house, except, of course, when the mood hit me to break in.
More than you likely wanted to know.
When I was 14 (1964), I hit my stepfather back and received one of the worse beatings ever. It was bad enough the school could not turn a blind eye as they had in the past. They called CPS and the police. Both my sister and I were removed from the horror house, at the school. My sister was close to 18 and went to live with a friend’s family.
I went into foster care and over almost two years time, broke two foster homes and spent a short amount of time in the Protective Custody Unit of the local Juvenile Hall. I was a well and truly messed up kid.
My caseworker stuck by me and found a foster home 300 miles away. She drove me to the local CPS office and signed a lot of paperwork because I was changing jurisdictions. Then I met my new foster parents. Mom and Dad became my true and forever parents. It was through their unconditional love, unfailing patience, and deep wisdom they were able to raise and help me heal.
Anyway, my stepfather had come home unexpectedly early and caught my sister playing their stereo. There was truly Hell to pay. Amidst the yelling, screaming, and calling her vile things (c*nt, b*tch, sl*t, and so on) he slapped my sister several times. I was included in the festivities because I was an accomplice and received a full on beating. So far, same old, same old.
The next morning we were told to pack lunches and fill a thermos with water. We rode out to the base where both my parents worked. When we pulled into the large parking lot of the building they worked in and were told that since we couldn’t behave ourselves, we could spend the day in the car and God help us if we got out. My stepfather’s office was on the 3rd floor and he could see the car. No arrangements were made for using the restroom. I opened the door on the far side of the car to relieve myself, we opened both doors to give my sister a measure of privacy. The car had roll down windows, so that was a plus.
A one day punishment? Oh no, that just would not do. We spent 7 weeks or so in that damn car, up until school started. When that happened, we were locked out of the house from when our parents left for work until they came home, after they picked their kids up from daycare, of course. It wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds as I could easily break into the house when the mood hit. My sister stayed at a friend’s house. I wandered around, stealing stuff and setting fields on fire. By this time in my life, I had a few maladaptive behaviors, shame on me (said with much sarcasm.
The following summer was more of the same car routine. We found ways to entertain ourselves, going so far as to sneaking a deck of cards into the car. Around mid-summer, my stepfather’s boss, a full bird colonel, caught on to what was happening and said it needed to stop. We spent the rest of that summer left to our own devices, locked out of the house, except, of course, when the mood hit me to break in.
More than you likely wanted to know.
When I was 14 (1964), I hit my stepfather back and received one of the worse beatings ever. It was bad enough the school could not turn a blind eye as they had in the past. They called CPS and the police. Both my sister and I were removed from the horror house, at the school. My sister was close to 18 and went to live with a friend’s family.
I went into foster care and over almost two years time, broke two foster homes and spent a short amount of time in the Protective Custody Unit of the local Juvenile Hall. I was a well and truly messed up kid.
My caseworker stuck by me and found a foster home 300 miles away. She drove me to the local CPS office and signed a lot of paperwork because I was changing jurisdictions. Then I met my new foster parents. Mom and Dad became my true and forever parents. It was through their unconditional love, unfailing patience, and deep wisdom they were able to raise and help me heal.
48points
#5
When I was 4, my mother was fed up with my stubborn refusal to eat my sandwich at lunch one day. She picked it up, separated the two slices, and stuck it to my face. There was a moment of complete silence as I stopped whining and evaluated what she'd done. After that we were both too collapsed with laughter to be mad at each other.
46points
#6
My best friend and I snuck out and walked to the nearby convenience store late at night in 6th grade. My father made me write a 20 page research paper on Watergate. I have no idea why he chose the topic but the knowledge has come in handy many times in my life.
40points
#7
You see, I had really bad handwriting as a kid. Like really really bad handwriting. My teachers in general had a hard time trying to mark my homework, and there were many times I got marks deducted just because my writing couldn’t be deciphered.
I was a fairly smart student back then, I just couldn’t be bothered to make my writing pretty, “like how little girls should actually write” (according to my dad). I was also quite rebellious even before I was 10, and I would argue with my dad over my handwriting. He claimed my handwriting was illegible, I thought it was perfectly fine because I could read it.
One day, my father finally had enough. Besides my stubbornness on refusing to improve my handwriting, my attitude was also pretty bad towards my dad. He ordered me to take the huge dictionary I had on my shelf, and flipped it open to the “A” section.
”Go copy it out.” He ordered.
I was livid. “Why? I don’t want to!” I screamed at him.
Dad just walked out of my room. “Make sure your writing is at least readable, or else I’ll make you erase all of it and rewrite it again.” He warned, before closing the door behind him.
So I copied out the dictionary, word by word. There was no physical punishment at all, but it almost felt… humiliating, that I had to copy the dictionary. I wanted to just scribble down the words, but I knew that dad was serious about making me rewriting all the entries if I did. The punishment made me write neatly against my will, because rebelling this time would not do my any good and only increase the time of my being cooped in my room.
I think two hours passed until I was absolutely done. I started screaming, wailing, tears running down my face and dripping onto the papers. Dad came into my room, obviously glowing with triumph and I absolutely hated him for that. He knew he had won, and I knew it too.
In hindsight, this punishment actually helped me a lot with my handwriting, as well as helped expanding my vocabulary range. Nothing physical was involved, but to a young child still in primary school, being made to write out words for a long time is a lot more (mentally) painful than it sounds. And to the parents of young children reading this right now, maybe try it out instead of threats and beating. If anyone is reading this lol.
I was a fairly smart student back then, I just couldn’t be bothered to make my writing pretty, “like how little girls should actually write” (according to my dad). I was also quite rebellious even before I was 10, and I would argue with my dad over my handwriting. He claimed my handwriting was illegible, I thought it was perfectly fine because I could read it.
One day, my father finally had enough. Besides my stubbornness on refusing to improve my handwriting, my attitude was also pretty bad towards my dad. He ordered me to take the huge dictionary I had on my shelf, and flipped it open to the “A” section.
”Go copy it out.” He ordered.
I was livid. “Why? I don’t want to!” I screamed at him.
Dad just walked out of my room. “Make sure your writing is at least readable, or else I’ll make you erase all of it and rewrite it again.” He warned, before closing the door behind him.
So I copied out the dictionary, word by word. There was no physical punishment at all, but it almost felt… humiliating, that I had to copy the dictionary. I wanted to just scribble down the words, but I knew that dad was serious about making me rewriting all the entries if I did. The punishment made me write neatly against my will, because rebelling this time would not do my any good and only increase the time of my being cooped in my room.
I think two hours passed until I was absolutely done. I started screaming, wailing, tears running down my face and dripping onto the papers. Dad came into my room, obviously glowing with triumph and I absolutely hated him for that. He knew he had won, and I knew it too.
In hindsight, this punishment actually helped me a lot with my handwriting, as well as helped expanding my vocabulary range. Nothing physical was involved, but to a young child still in primary school, being made to write out words for a long time is a lot more (mentally) painful than it sounds. And to the parents of young children reading this right now, maybe try it out instead of threats and beating. If anyone is reading this lol.
35points
#8
I was still in the primary grades, when I heard a four letter word at school. Naturally, I actually spoke that word…at home…in front of Mom. I was simply amazed at how quickly a little boy can be picked up, upside down, carried to the kitchen sink…and introduced to the savory flavor of Dove bar soap. Needless to say, I never spoke that word…in front of Mom…again. Mom had a goodly supply of bars of soap…And, she knew how to use them, too.
34points
#9
I had a serious door slamming issue as a teenager when I would fight with my parents. One night we were fighting per usual and I stormed off and slammed my bedroom door behind me.
Two minutes later my dad showed up with a screwdriver and took my bedroom door off its hinges. Three weeks as a teenage girl having a doorless bedroom taught me to never ever slam that door again.
Two minutes later my dad showed up with a screwdriver and took my bedroom door off its hinges. Three weeks as a teenage girl having a doorless bedroom taught me to never ever slam that door again.
31points
#10
Essay writing.
My dad is a graduate school professor and he made us write essays about what we had done wrong, why it was wrong, and what we should have done instead. We had to cite sources and use outside information/research. My dad would then read and correct the content and grammar of the essays until they were deemed satisfactory.
We were basically grounded until the essay was complete and considered good enough. The worse the punishment, the longer the essay and the harder he critiqued it.
For example, you left the dishes in the sink after being told way too many times? Pretty soon you were writing a short essay about germs and proper food handling, etc.
My dad is a graduate school professor and he made us write essays about what we had done wrong, why it was wrong, and what we should have done instead. We had to cite sources and use outside information/research. My dad would then read and correct the content and grammar of the essays until they were deemed satisfactory.
We were basically grounded until the essay was complete and considered good enough. The worse the punishment, the longer the essay and the harder he critiqued it.
For example, you left the dishes in the sink after being told way too many times? Pretty soon you were writing a short essay about germs and proper food handling, etc.
31points
#11
My dad made us all go to the back of a 45minute line at the theme park because i was being impatient and bratty.
Would do similar things, if anyone complained about dinner or how long it took to cook they would eat after everyone else.
Would do similar things, if anyone complained about dinner or how long it took to cook they would eat after everyone else.
29points
#12
Being forced to wear my mother’s clothes.
From the time I was 11, until I moved out of my parent’s house, I had the fortune of wearing the exact same size as my mother. Great for those “I need something that looks professional/adult” moments, horrible for my own personal fashion sense. One Christmas, we were going over to one of their friends houses for a Christmas party.
As a 14 year old, I wanted to wear jeans, one because they were comfy, and two because they were the last clean bottoms I had left. My father refused to let me wear jeans because it wasn’t such a casual event and we should dress nice for the occasion, since I had no “proper” clean clothes of my own, I had to wear one of my mother’s outfits.
We get to the party, and everyone but my family is wearing jeans.
I promptly tell my father that I wasn’t speaking to him for the rest of the night, and set about mingling with the other guests and end up having a thought provoking conversation with someone who seemed close to my age, until they said something that just clicked in my head so I asked how old they were. They responded that they were a Freshman in College. I was both happy and proud that I was able to hold a conversation with someone 4–5 years my senior, until i asked how old they thought I was…
“Forty-four.” came the first reply as my ego took a huge hit. My Mother was 49 at the time, and I was 14!
“Married.” Another arrow straight in my wounded ego.
“Two kids.” My ego now thoroughly deflated, I politely excused myself from the conversation to go over to my father and tell him that I would not be speaking to him again for-ev-er. It didn’t last forever, but I never let him live it down.
From the time I was 11, until I moved out of my parent’s house, I had the fortune of wearing the exact same size as my mother. Great for those “I need something that looks professional/adult” moments, horrible for my own personal fashion sense. One Christmas, we were going over to one of their friends houses for a Christmas party.
As a 14 year old, I wanted to wear jeans, one because they were comfy, and two because they were the last clean bottoms I had left. My father refused to let me wear jeans because it wasn’t such a casual event and we should dress nice for the occasion, since I had no “proper” clean clothes of my own, I had to wear one of my mother’s outfits.
We get to the party, and everyone but my family is wearing jeans.
I promptly tell my father that I wasn’t speaking to him for the rest of the night, and set about mingling with the other guests and end up having a thought provoking conversation with someone who seemed close to my age, until they said something that just clicked in my head so I asked how old they were. They responded that they were a Freshman in College. I was both happy and proud that I was able to hold a conversation with someone 4–5 years my senior, until i asked how old they thought I was…
“Forty-four.” came the first reply as my ego took a huge hit. My Mother was 49 at the time, and I was 14!
“Married.” Another arrow straight in my wounded ego.
“Two kids.” My ego now thoroughly deflated, I politely excused myself from the conversation to go over to my father and tell him that I would not be speaking to him again for-ev-er. It didn’t last forever, but I never let him live it down.
28points
#13
Forced to smell dog breath. Because "If we have to deal with the filth from your mouth, you have to deal with the filth from its mouth"
It sounds funny, and it is funny looking back on it...but good god it was not funny then. I begged for almost anything else.
It sounds funny, and it is funny looking back on it...but good god it was not funny then. I begged for almost anything else.
28points
#14
Alright. First I’ll start with a little backstory. I was 9 at the time, and my parents were divorced. My dad was dating the definition of the wicked witch of the west.
She would ground me for sitting on the couch after school for 20 minutes instead of doing the dishes. She was crazy. Her favorite punishment would be to take away a nighttime snack, which felt pretty essential as a 9 year old. With that, I started to become an impulsive liar.
One night, I got the smart idea to put a groanola bar in my pillow, as it was hard to sleep without a night snack. A few weeks later she found it. Every single item was stripped from my room, except my mattress. I had to earn back my stuff box by box. I remember seeing all of my boxes in the basement.
Of course this made me sad, as a 9 year old I didn’t have a tablet or anything so the only thing I could do was sit around until I had my toys back. Fast foreward a few weeks and my teacher thinks I have depression. I then had to speak with the school counselor every week. God bless her soul, she was an amazing lady. I told her of the situation and she gave me ideas to help me earn the boxes back. She also gave me some crayons and coloring sheets that I could do at home. I will never forget her. But yeah, that was my worst punishment.
She would ground me for sitting on the couch after school for 20 minutes instead of doing the dishes. She was crazy. Her favorite punishment would be to take away a nighttime snack, which felt pretty essential as a 9 year old. With that, I started to become an impulsive liar.
One night, I got the smart idea to put a groanola bar in my pillow, as it was hard to sleep without a night snack. A few weeks later she found it. Every single item was stripped from my room, except my mattress. I had to earn back my stuff box by box. I remember seeing all of my boxes in the basement.
Of course this made me sad, as a 9 year old I didn’t have a tablet or anything so the only thing I could do was sit around until I had my toys back. Fast foreward a few weeks and my teacher thinks I have depression. I then had to speak with the school counselor every week. God bless her soul, she was an amazing lady. I told her of the situation and she gave me ideas to help me earn the boxes back. She also gave me some crayons and coloring sheets that I could do at home. I will never forget her. But yeah, that was my worst punishment.
24points
#15
When I was about 12 and my brother was 10, we got in trouble for something, I can't even remember. We lived in Washington state and it was wet and rainy. We had a bug woodpile in the back yard.
My dad told us to move the entire woodpile about 15 feet away. Lots of slugs and bugs were in it. When we were done he came to look at it.
He said, "I don't like it here, move it back." We were so pissed. It took us all day.
My dad told us to move the entire woodpile about 15 feet away. Lots of slugs and bugs were in it. When we were done he came to look at it.
He said, "I don't like it here, move it back." We were so pissed. It took us all day.
24points
#16
My parents would make my older brother and sister chose one of the Encyclopedias, turn to a random page, and start copying everything down until my parents told them to stop.
22points
#17
I had to write an apology letter for destroying a neighbor's mailbox, then I had to 'help' them fix it. All i did was dig a hole and our other neighbor did the rest and I had to watch to see how much of a pain it would be to fix breaking something.
22points
#18
So, my mom would make me write sentences. Yep. Sentences in cursive saying “I will not do blah blah blah ever again” in cursive in the smallest writing I could muster at my young age and I would have to fill out an entire 80 page college ruled notebook for my groundation to be complete. Now mind you, the things I did were minor things. Like I made too much cake for a birthday party, Sentences. Made slime in the bathroom and it went well? Sentences. Got locked out of car? SENTENCES. No matter what I did, I had to write a whole goddamn notebook’s worth of sentences. It’s a wonder on how I passed English class without screaming out “If I need to write an entire god dang notebook’s worth of sentences, I swear to whatever god there is… Someone is dying and it most likely won’t be me!”
I honestly can’t look at a number 2 pencil and a notebook the same again.
I honestly can’t look at a number 2 pencil and a notebook the same again.
21points
#19
My father was newly married to my stepmom, so I must have been 12 or 13 at the time. She was always running to my dad with ‘stories’ to get me into trouble, so I honestly can’t remember what I was supposedly being punished for. Back in those days, 78rpm records were still in vogue. I had quite a large collection, mainly of Elvis.
My punishment was, I was to stand with my hands raised at my sides until they were horizontal. Every time I lowered my arms, my dad would break one of the records. I stood, without lowering my arms for almost 3 hours. Eventually my dad took pity on me (or admired my stamina) and just took the top record to break, then said the punishment was over. Thanks for the A2A, Allamdas.
My punishment was, I was to stand with my hands raised at my sides until they were horizontal. Every time I lowered my arms, my dad would break one of the records. I stood, without lowering my arms for almost 3 hours. Eventually my dad took pity on me (or admired my stamina) and just took the top record to break, then said the punishment was over. Thanks for the A2A, Allamdas.
20points
#20
My sisters and I would have to memorize passages from Shakespeare together. It was horrible to be fighting and then sit together for half an hour or more memorizing and reciting until my dad returned. One wrong word and he'd leave us for a while. Probably the worst part is it made me hate Shakespeare. I've had corporal punishment and all that but this stuck out.
19points