I can’t even begin to describe what it’s been like around our farm since I last posted. I’d almost forgotten I had a blog! Well, not really. It was in the back of my mind, especially on the few nights that I had received discipline from DH. I know this isn’t very submissive of me as a wife, but during those moments I was writing posts in my head as a distraction. How will I relay this story? Will readers think he is being mean and unfair, or will they understand? Am I the only one who distracts herself? Or attempts to do so?
After having read other HoH and domestic discipline blogs, I feel that perhaps there will be understanding. No, I am certain of it. I believe the women will relate to me and the dear husbands will see my husband’s view.
This is just another side blogging issue, but I saw that comments were coming through without needing my approval, and I thought perhaps I had inadvertently changed it, and was quite happy about that. I logged in today, however, for the first time in a couple of weeks and found another comment needing approval. I do not get why some are going through and others not?
I suppose it does not matter.
We have not done anything the last few weeks but worked in the fields and then fall into bed at night. Most nights, I gather. I left off with a cliffhanger in my last post. DH naturally followed up with what he said was coming, and it involved some unpleasant reminders. I know that he is correct in what he says. You can take the girl out of the hills, but you cannot take the hills out of the girl!
Rather, DH believes that he can. He comes from those same hills, though, and I remind him that what we do comes from there as well. He is not very open to that comparison, stating very pointedly (and accurately) that what he does is very different. I am not subjugated. I am not held down to a place of simply being. He is not the most important in the household, he tells me, although he is the head. His role is providing for us and making sure that I, and the children as well, have what is needed to be the best we can be. He takes pride in that provision, he tells me.
Disciplining is part of that. Yes, I admit, it does work wonders and we have a wonderful relationship. I adore this man even after all of these years, and it is clear to anyone who knows us that he adores me.
The discipline, however, we must get to it. That is what you read for?
I hate to admit it, but it did involve a bar of soap. I do not know how many people grew up with this as a form of punishment as a child when you would say something foul. It was called washing your mouth out, to make it clean, I suppose. Symbolically, of course. DH uses this on occasion to drive the point home, especially when I have been using more expletives than he has patience for.
Later that night after the children were in bed asleep, he approached me in our bedroom as I was changing into my nightshirt. The first thing he did was give me this bear hug, which is signature of him in our house. He is known for his engulfing hugs, even with the children. There is something about them that make you feel protected and cared for and loved. He held me for a moment and kissed my head. He smelled of the fields, and of hay, and of tobacco all rolled together. I relate that to maleness, the man smell I call it.
He took my hand and sat down on the edge of our bed, which left me standing in front of him.
He told me again how much he disliked the language I used oftentimes. He expressed how very much he disliked it when I did such in front of the children. He also firmly told me that such disrespect aimed at him, again in front of the children especially, was intolerable. He loves me, he said. He loves my independence and spirit, but there must also be a respect and harmony. It was his job to make sure everything remained smooth.
I wasn’t too shocked when he pulled me over his knee, lifted up my nightshirt, and pulled down my underpants. I had a brief thought of rebellion, yet that dissipated with the first swat of his hand. At first I was concerned with the noise. We rarely use the bedroom for discipline involving spanking, but will on occasion. The children’s rooms are not too close, and our house is well-built and insulated. It was late, so it was a certainty that they were sleeping soundly.
My husband’s hand falls heavily and fast, so it did not take much time for me to start wishing I had made better choices earlier in that day. He let me up, and planted me straight in the corner.
I heard him milling around in the bathroom, and soon he called to me to join him there. We have used soap before, but it’s not common. I did, thought, figure this is where we were headed next. I was being disciplined for my unruly mouth after all. Lo and behold, there my sweet man stood with a new bar of soap in his hand, waving it at me as he lectured about shameful language. He stated how offensive he personally found it, particularly in his wife when she directed it at him. No voices raised; my DH does not do that. His tone is certain and unwavering. That alone prompts me to listen, and obey. Not fear. Never fear. I have been deeply upset by the prospect of punishment before, but I have never once feared my husband or for my safety. That is, I think, what makes this so much different than what I saw growing up. If I were to adamantly say “NO!” (and I have, yet that is an entirely different tale), then he would not force me, or beat me into submission. Never that man, who loves me more than his own life.
He told me to open. That is what he does. He expects me to show my compliance and submission by obeying, not by him forcing onto me. He would not shove the soap in my mouth; I would take it willingly. This was very hard to do, and I hesitated. He just stared at me with those piercing eyes, and I obeyed and opened and took that vile bar into my mouth. For a few moments we just stood there, staring at one another. It must have been a ridiculous looking scene. I could feel the soap starting to react with my spit, and it began to burn my tongue while I concentrated on not swallowing. I’m not certain how long he made me keep it in my mouth. Perhaps five minutes? Then he pulled it out gently and allowed me to spit once into the sink, but not rinse. That was awful!
We went back into the bedroom, where he made me lie over pillows in the center of the bed. I did so with that horrible taste still on my tongue. I knew this routine. The belt would come out again, and this time it would not be over my britches.
He lifted my nightshirt up gently. He seemed to consider my underpants, yet finally pulled them down as well, to just below my bottom. DH tries not to hit my thighs, although it is not unheard of for him to place a stroke or two there for an extra point made. He then took his belt out of the drawer and began to stripe my bottom with it.
It was too much, so I cried into the bed and tried to stay in place. Soon he was finished and on the bed with me, soothing me, and rubbing my hair, my back, and my bottom. It didn’t take long for me to finish, and he helped me up to go rinse out my mouth with water. The taste doesn’t fully go away regardless of how many rinses, so I brushed my teeth as well. That helped. When I came back to the room, he was undressing for his shower. I curled up under the blankets while he took his shower, and considered that he was of course correct in that I needed to try so much harder to curb the language. Who wants their kids walking around saying the F-bomb as if it is perfectly okay? Cursing is not such a big deal to me, and it wasn’t where I come from. However, DH is correct in how it can make you look if you use it as part of your vocabulary. He is correct in that I have tried so hard to have the life of education, and that such words can make you appear less educated. Crude. I don’t want that for me or my children.
After his shower, DH came and snuggled with me under the blankets. He kissed my ear, caressed my belly, and told me that he wanted only for us to be our best selves, and to teach our kids to be their best selves.
So, I agree that I save those words for the plants and dead chickens that can’t hear me.