Why I Hate Pajamas

Part Two

Image from girlsinpyjamas.com

(Our story began here: http://auntcarlascorner.blogspot.com/2013/05/why-i-hate-pajamas_18.html)

In the temporary sanctuary of my room, my tears spilled over and fell down my cheeks. My embarrassment was profound: I’d just been scolded like a naughty little girl and sent to change into my pajamas for punishment-- all in front of Ben and Kyra!

I sobbed at the injustice of it as I disconsolately pulled open my underwear drawer and tried to choose the least of objectionable pair of pajamas in which to make a public appearance. Unfortunately, none of mine were of the sort likely to be confused with a jogging outfit or other garment: they were unmistakably pajamas, pjs, symbol of immature naughtiness. Knowing that unnecessary delays meant an irritated spanker, I stripped quickly to the skin. I reflexively covered my small breasts and my blonde landing strip with my hands; in that moment I felt almost as if those on the other side of my door could see through walls.     

Feeling terribly vulnerable in my unclothed state, I swiftly donned my baby-blue pajamas. Wiping away a tear and sighing heavily, I forced myself out the door.

My younger sister Beverly had joined the throng, no doubt alerted and lured downstairs by my mother’s unmistakable tone. Bev, like everyone else, was dressed comfortably in casual clothes. I alone wore the raiment of the shamed and demoted, the impulsive teenager who was soon to be upended in the living room for an embarrassing bottom-toasting.

Sitting on the couch beside my brother, Kyra took in the sight of a barefoot 16-year-old in baby-blue pjs and gave me a look of genuine sympathy. My mother pointed at “The Naughty Corner” -- a confluence of two living room walls that had been the site unhappy meditation for three kids for as long as they could remember. Feeling my face go brick-red, I tiptoed over to the spot. Without having to be told, I took down the little ribbon hanging from a hook on the wall (right beside the infamous “Lickin’ Stick”) and held it against the wall with my nose. By force of long-established habit, my hands went to the top of my head, causing my pajama top to ride up in back. And there I stood in shamed silence, my face burning, waiting for the call to come to the dinner table.

It seemed like forever before that call came, not that I was exactly looking forward to facing my audience at the table. Still, come it did at last. I dropped my hands, replaced the ribbon on its hook, and walked, head down and face burning, toward the table.

I tried to dodge the barely-concealed smirks of my dear siblings. Because there was a pajama-clad kid at the table, the dinner conversation was dominated by discussion of McCormick family discipline past and present. Kyra, goddess that she was, deflected attention away from me by asking questions about her fiancé’s disciplinary record.

“So when was the last time Ben got his tail roasted, Mama McCormick?”

Now it was my brother’s turn to blush.

“Oh, it was when he was Maddie’s age,” Mom replied breezily.

“And what did my macho man do to deserve a bottoms-up trip over his mama’s knee?” Kyra asked sweetly, looking at the suddenly-uncomfortable lad with a gleam of wicked delight in her eye.

Mr. McCormick laughed. “As I recall, that was the occasion of my son’s first and only experiment with tobacco products.”

Beverly giggled, and even I managed a small smile as Ben seemed to try to disappear into his chair. I felt a small sense of vindication; having been right out there with his schadenfreude at my predicament, I felt he deserved to be embarrassed in front of his fiancée.

“We take a dim view of ‘experimentation’ with controlled substances,” Mom put in, then--looking at me--”especially when the experimenters are underage.”

“And I suppose the youngest McCormick has always been nothing but a perfect angel?” Kyra inquired. She winked at me; in that moment, I intuited what she was up to: deliberately calling attention to my siblings’ close encounters with my mom’s lap so I wouldn’t feel so isolated. I loved her more than ever.

“Are you kidding?” my mom said with an incredulous expression. “This young lady has gone bottoms-up more times than I can count!”  

Beverly went beet-red in an instant.

“Don’t feel bad, Bev,” my future sister-in-law said with a sympathetic smile. “We’ve all been there.”

I was in love. My brother was going to have to fight me for this woman’s affections.

“You?” my little sister squeaked. I suppose if I idolized Kyra at age 16, to a 14-year-old she must have seemed like a genuine goddess. I saw on her face the attempt to wrap her mind around the idea of this supreme being kicking and squawking over someone’s knee. My current predicament notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, yeah; my parents are definitely old-school,” Kyra replied. And there’s a ‘Naughty Corner’ at our house, too. I’m sure my little brother still spends quite a bit of time there, in fact.”

“How long since you were there?” My brother seemed to sense an opportunity to get some of his injured dignity back.

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out!” Kyra laughed. You got served, Bro.

“Speaking of Naughty Corners,” said my mother, “it’s time for a certain young lady to return to hers while we clear the table.”

I sighed and my face flared anew. I wasn’t surprised: the minimum McCormick “reflection period” on either side of a spanking was twenty minutes; due to the imminence of dinner time, I’d only served about half that earlier.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, rising and feeling all eyes on the pajama-clad girl once again. I caught Kyra’s look of sympathy and wink of solidarity, and returned to my corner feeling much less ill-used by the universe. I still had the profound indignity of a witnessed spanking in my immediate future, of course, but Kyra had gone out of her way to point out that everyone at the table under the age of nineteen had recently shared the experience. Standing with my nose to the wall and my hands on my head, I felt oddly comforted.

[End of Part Two]

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

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