She spanked my wife … 3 times, and I am not too happy about it. Yet somehow it doesn’t surprise me that she would do it.
Aunt Bessie was very upset about Christmas. Most of us spent our time in her den with the kids. We played cards, had fun with the kids and talked. What we didn’t do is gorge on the food in the kitchen. The food, that is, that was not supposed to be there per a promise offered a few week prior. The food isn’t the point of this blog entry. It’s related, indirectly, but it’s merely a plot element to get us to the goal.
When Aunt Bessie brought food into den to tempt me, and I repeatedly refused, my wife finally spoke up telling her that I didn’t need the food. At which point Aunt Bessie shooed her, like a fly from a pie. That is, she swung her hand in my wife’s direction. Aunt Bessie doesn’t like strong women. She believes that women are supposed to be silent. That is, unless they are her. She’s earned the right to speak up because she raised two boys alone, after her husband died. That qualifies her to degrade and punish at will. If I had to guess, I would say that Aunt Bessie does not really believe herself to be a woman, but a man without the dirty digit.
A little while later, Aunt Bessie caught my wife alone in the den, after we all moved to the living room to open gifts. She came up behind my wife and surprised her with three firm swats to the behind: clearly meant as a punishment, for speaking out of turn. My wife is a woman and isn’t blood and she ought, in Aunt Bessie’s mind, to keep quiet. Aunt Bessie’s never said that about my wife outright, but she’s made those types of comments all her life regarding women and non-blood relatives. She is fond of the phrase, “They are not blood.”
A few weeks after this incident, we went out to eat with Aunt Bessie. I don’t know why. I don’t think she deserves it. Anyway, she offered me cookies again. She had baked some and wanted to know if I wanted them. I asked her why she would offer me those, knowing they are bad for me. Her response was simple:
Aunt Bessie sees it as her pre-ordained right to dole out judgment and punishment to those around her. She sees us, all of us, as children who need to be disciplined and guided by her. To some extent she believes she is the great principal of our family elementary school.
I am even reconsidering the amount of time that I spend with her. I am angry with her. Angry that she spanked my wife. Angry that she broke her promise to me. Angry that she refuses to give up on her quest to feed me sweets. Anger that she treats anyone who is not “blood” as some kind of secondary submissive existence. The more I write, the angrier I become. Anger can be a productive thing, but to an addict it can also be destructive. Anger can lead to hate, and hate eats holes in our already delicate souls. But I am tired of her treatment of my family.
I’m not sure what to do. Maybe it is she that should be metaphorically spanked. Maybe the problem is that we have too long spared the rod and spoiled her inner child. Cookies be damned.
Aunt Bessie was very upset about Christmas. Most of us spent our time in her den with the kids. We played cards, had fun with the kids and talked. What we didn’t do is gorge on the food in the kitchen. The food, that is, that was not supposed to be there per a promise offered a few week prior. The food isn’t the point of this blog entry. It’s related, indirectly, but it’s merely a plot element to get us to the goal.
When Aunt Bessie brought food into den to tempt me, and I repeatedly refused, my wife finally spoke up telling her that I didn’t need the food. At which point Aunt Bessie shooed her, like a fly from a pie. That is, she swung her hand in my wife’s direction. Aunt Bessie doesn’t like strong women. She believes that women are supposed to be silent. That is, unless they are her. She’s earned the right to speak up because she raised two boys alone, after her husband died. That qualifies her to degrade and punish at will. If I had to guess, I would say that Aunt Bessie does not really believe herself to be a woman, but a man without the dirty digit.
A little while later, Aunt Bessie caught my wife alone in the den, after we all moved to the living room to open gifts. She came up behind my wife and surprised her with three firm swats to the behind: clearly meant as a punishment, for speaking out of turn. My wife is a woman and isn’t blood and she ought, in Aunt Bessie’s mind, to keep quiet. Aunt Bessie’s never said that about my wife outright, but she’s made those types of comments all her life regarding women and non-blood relatives. She is fond of the phrase, “They are not blood.”
A few weeks after this incident, we went out to eat with Aunt Bessie. I don’t know why. I don’t think she deserves it. Anyway, she offered me cookies again. She had baked some and wanted to know if I wanted them. I asked her why she would offer me those, knowing they are bad for me. Her response was simple:
“I’ll never give up.”
Aunt Bessie sees it as her pre-ordained right to dole out judgment and punishment to those around her. She sees us, all of us, as children who need to be disciplined and guided by her. To some extent she believes she is the great principal of our family elementary school.
I am even reconsidering the amount of time that I spend with her. I am angry with her. Angry that she spanked my wife. Angry that she broke her promise to me. Angry that she refuses to give up on her quest to feed me sweets. Anger that she treats anyone who is not “blood” as some kind of secondary submissive existence. The more I write, the angrier I become. Anger can be a productive thing, but to an addict it can also be destructive. Anger can lead to hate, and hate eats holes in our already delicate souls. But I am tired of her treatment of my family.
I’m not sure what to do. Maybe it is she that should be metaphorically spanked. Maybe the problem is that we have too long spared the rod and spoiled her inner child. Cookies be damned.
