The most spankable day of the year

That morning when Pa came in to breakfast he caught Laura and said he must give her a spanking.

First he explained that today was her birthday, and she would not grow properly next year unless she had a spanking. And then he spanked so gently and carefully that it did not hurt a bit.

"One-two-three-four-five-six," he counted and spanked, slowly. One spank for each year, and at the last one big spank to grow on.

-- Little House in the Big Woods

The first time I mentioned birthday spankings to A., I think he thought I was making them up even as he was willing to oblige me thirty-some spanks. Or rather, believed that in my spanking-dominated way of thinking, I was exaggerating the practice. Or confusing what happened in my pervy family with what happens in mainstream America. A quick Google search producing story after story of American co-workers suing after being spanked at work on their birthday or birthday spankings at American schools resulting in arrest persuaded him that perhaps they were real. Though I think he still views birthday spankings right up there with Santa Claus.

But, of course, birthday spankings are real. Here in America, birthdays are the most spankable day of the year. A day when even the most ardent vanilla will go for a scoop of chocolate. And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.

While I'm sure I probably received a birthday spanking earlier -- especially given my maternal grandfather's generous distribution of them at any and every occasion -- the first one that I can really remember happened on my seventh birthday. I was in first grade at a private, fundamentalist Christian school where spanking was standard. It was customary for our teacher, before handing out the cupcakes the birthday girl or boy brought for the event, to beckon the little girl or boy to the front of the class, hold him or her by the arm and smack his or her bottom for each year of life. She would add a "pinch for an inch" in which she pinched the bottom and completed the ritual with a "hug to grow on."

As my birthday approached, I feigned apprehension about my impending spanking to my friends and family. I talked about what I should wear that would best protect my bottom. Apparently my birthday landed on a Friday because I remember settling on a pair of polyester red, white, and blue checked pants (it was the 70s) and girls at my school were only allowed to wear pants on Fridays. At one point, I even considered wearing some sort of padding.

It was all a ruse to hide the fact that the imminent spanking excited the hell out of me. I had recently discovered while reading The Story About Ping that spanking held an inexplicable appeal for me. Over the last few months I had been fantasizing about getting a spanking from my teacher, but I wasn't willing to risk my good girl status to get one. Birthday spankings were like a freebie. No getting into trouble. No looks of disappointment and guilt-ridden angst. Yet I still got the savory embarrassment of being summoned to the front of the room, bent over, and smacked like a naughty little girl.

December 8th finally arrived. My mom made yellow Betty Crocker cupcakes with chocolate frosting, placed them in a Tupperware container and dropped them off with me at the babysitter's before heading to work in the early morning darkness. As I sat on the couch before the bus came, watching Ramblin' Rod next to my plastic box filled with flour-and-egg festivity, the smell of the chocolate frosting had me craving sugar and spankings.

Class birthday parties were always in the afternoon. The long morning passed and it was time to break out the cupcakes, as well as the construction paper, crayons, and paste for birthday cards. But not before the spanking. Blushing, I made my way to the front of the class and stood next to Mrs. Leiser. She smiled, held onto my arm softly, and delivered seven gentle, careful smacks to my backside, along with the "pinch for an inch." Before I knew it, the birthday spanking was over and I was enveloped in her arms for a hug that was sure to keep me growing for years to come.

I only remember one other childhood birthday spanking after that. At my tenth birthday party, one of my friends (who were mostly boys by this point) mentioned that I hadn't had my birthday spanking yet and before I knew it, the lot of them started wrestling me down to give me my ten smacks. Laughing and blushing, I fought back without much success, especially as my stepfather decided to lend a hand. Those smacks were definitely not the "gentle, careful" smacks Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser handed out. But they were not exactly disagreeable either.

A. is slowly becoming accustomed to our fine American tradition. After a painful lesson on his birthday earlier this year, he gained a better understanding of how it works and how central it is to the birthday of any spanko. Not that I have to wait until my birthday for a decent spanking anymore, but I still look forward to a drawn out, ritualized spanking each December 8th as it just wouldn't be a proper birthday without one.

Though this year the birthday spanking -- and even my birthday luvin' -- will have to wait a bit as my pelvic/abdominal pain is as bad as ever (and quite possibly exacerbated by an infection...um...down there). And A. may have to take a few pointers from Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser on delivering a birthday spanking as my appointment with the urogynecologist isn't until January 9th. But in a few days, once I'm feeling a little better, I think we just might be able to work something out with a pile of pillows and a belt...