I was "Beaten" and I lived to tell my story.

When I was a child I was a hellian. I was a very curious boy. If mom told me not to touch the stove I wanted to know how hot it actually was, so I touched it. My mom stood there as I cried and reminded me that I was told it was hot.

After a few minutes of pain she did what mothers do and got me some ice to ease the pain and a big bowl of ice cream. I guess she figured there was no need for a swat after the pain I went through.

Later in life when I was about 10, my family bought camper. It was a beautiful white. Me, being the moron I was, I thought it needed a little touch of "color". I found dad's collection of spray paint. I grab the brightest most neon orange I could find. I did my best as I painted a large orange circle on the back.

It took a few days but Dad found my painting. When I was asked if I painted the camper I promply responded with a sharp crisp "no". I was quickly found out by the orange residue on my fingers.

Dad asked me one more time. Again, I said no. He asked me why my fingers were orange. I didn't know what to say. He looked at me and told me he didn't want to spank me but it was the only way I was going to learn.

Did it sting? Yes. Did I do it again? No. Do I hate my father? Hell no. I am grateful for the quick painful swats.

Now, I am a US Marine and pursuing a degree in communication. I talk to my parents everyday and I have actually thanked them for the ways they have disciplined me. Every kids needs a solid swat now again.

Submitted by Chad (Seattle, WA)