Why I Hate Pajamas

Part One

image from girlspyjamaspanking.com

My name is Madeleine McCormick, and I’ve never been a big fan of pajamas. When I was 16, something happened that turned my already-established dislike of the garment into a lifelong revulsion.

For as long as I could remember, I’d associated pajamas with being punished. This was no accident: in my family, punishments almost always began with the command, “Go change into your pajamas!” My older brother, younger sister and I knew all too well what that meant: our misbehavior had crossed the Rubicon; we were definitely going to get spanked.

We’d always whine and plead, but deep down we knew at that moment that there was no going back. After the dread “pajamas” command sounded, no amount of apologizing could come between us and a sore, red bottom (and an equally red face). You see, by parental decree, all spankings occurred out in the living room with the whole family in attendance. The putative reasoning behind this was that they (our mom and dad) could teach all three kids a helpful lesson with just one spanking. What it meant for us in practice, of course, was a huge serving of embarrassment to go along with the already-unpleasant experience of being spanked. On the occasions when we were obstinate enough--or dumb enough--to seriously misbehave in the presence of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, the embarrassment factor went through the roof. Never in our family history was an appeal granted on the basis of who was there to witness our shameful comeuppance-- notwithstanding our heartfelt pleas on those occasions to be spanked in our bedrooms. “Misbehave in public, get punished in public” was a maxim my parents lived by. The only (slight) saving grace was that this had always meant “in the presence of extended family,” not actually “in public.”

The other thing that fueled our embarrassment was the fact that our parents never made the shift from over-the-knee discipline to other forms of punishment as we grew older. If you deliberately, seriously misbehaved, you had an over-the-knee trip in your immediate future, whether you were six or sixteen. When we reached our teen years, things became infinitely worse for us, especially if our cousins happened to be visiting. In keeping with the discipline philosophy guiding the McCormick house, we’d get it in front of them and their parents-- who had in fact made the switch to grounding, removal of privileges, and the like. The barely-covered grins and muted giggles of our cousins seeing us go bare-bottom-up in the living room was as bad as--if not worse than--the spanking itself.

But nothing in my experience compared to the devastating embarrassment I suffered  when I was sixteen.

My brother Ben was nineteen at the time, and home from college for winter break. On the evening in question, his fiancée Kyra had come over for dinner. She was a beautiful college freshman, and in my eyes, the walking epitome of female maturity and coolness. I wanted to be like her, and I wanted her to see me as an equal. It was that yearning that was at the heart of my downfall that evening.

Kyra drank alcohol-- in moderation and with restraint. She was not at all the typical college “party girl” who got drunk and acted irresponsibly. At sixteen, I have to admit I didn’t quite get the distinction yet. I’d had my share of beer and cheap wine at parties and while out with girlfriends; this was, of course, a closely-guarded secret. My parents had been clear about this: their kids were decidedly not to consume alcohol before reaching legal adulthood. So far, I’d kept my flouting of the family rule under wraps. The chickens  were about to come home to roost, and I was completely clueless.

Before dinner, I was chattering away with Kyra. In a half-unconscious effort to project my maturity and worldliness before her, I pulled a Miller Lite out of the refrigerator and popped the lid. (A singularly dumb move, considering the fact that Mom was bustling about in and out of the kitchen at the time.) Heedless, I knocked back a deep swig of the beer.

“Madeleine Rae McCormick, what do you think you’re doing?” my mother demanded as she walked into the kitchen. Her hands went to her hips (always a bad sign) and she skewered me with a look that would have made Attila the Hun tremble.

“I, um, I was just having...” my voice trailed off as embarrassment flowed through every inch of my being. I was being scolded in front of my brother’s fiancée--and I was sixteen! Of course, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Kyra had the grace to look almost as embarrassed as I felt, but that did little to assuage my feelings. Ben came into the kitchen (he’d been chatting with my dad in the living room) at the dread sound of my mother’s “someone’s in trouble” voice. He was less gracious than Kyra (girls are always more mature than boys); he saw the beer in my hand and grinned, making “tsk-tsk” sounds and shaking his head.

“You’re toast, little sis,” he said.

“How long has this been going on, young lady?” This from my father.

My face was as red as a beet. I stared at my feet, unable to speak.Then came the words from my mom that turned my stomach to a quivering mass of jelly:

“Go put your pajamas on, young lady.”

I gasped. She couldn’t be serious!

“Mom! We have company!”

“Kyra is family, not ‘company.’”

“But...”

“No ‘buts,’ young lady. PJs on right now; we’ll take care of this after dinner, since  we’re almost ready to eat.”

My world had crumbled around me in the course of about ten seconds. I was being promised an after-dinner spanking in front of Ben and Kyra, and I would somehow have to survive the intense humiliation of eating dinner with them in my pajamas at 8:00 pm on a Friday night. I looked at the determined look in my mother’s eyes, and knew no reprieve was possible. My face flaring like a house on fire, and ran for my room as my eyes filled with tears.

[END of Part One]

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

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