In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “When Childhood Ends.”
I was an only child reared by a Southern Baptist minister so daddy’s belt and my butt danced everyday until one weekend my best buds were sleeping over. I was 11 years old and as typical in my house I did something to warrant a spanking. Into the bathroom we went. My dad, me and the belt. I assumed the stance and proceeded to dance round and round my dad on one hand with the belt chasing me as he swung that leather! Only this time I didn’t cry and the harder he hit my butt the harder I bit my tounge. After the blood refused to rush to his face any longer he stopped and ask me why I wasn’t crying. My reply? He could wail all he wanted and as long as my friends were there I would not cry. My father never spanked me again and I thought I had grown up that night. Unfortunately childhood ending or at least that first step “out” led me on the journey of being an adult or growing up and the realization that growing up is much harder and longer than the end of childhood.