Mother's Washcloth Treatment
Sometimes I don’t know exactly what it is I do that gets me in trouble. Other times, it’s quite obvious. Say, for example, sticking my tongue out at Mother when she’s scolding me.
I know, not smart, but what boy is always using his brain? Sometimes when Mother scolds, I really don’t listen to what she says. I’ve heard it all before, and I’m not that interested. All I want is for the lecture to be over and to get on with what I am doing.
But today, this time, I’ve had enough. No more, I think, and then the fateful action follows. Out goes my tongue in a defiant taunt.
At first I think it worked. Mother stops talking and stares at me. She turns wordlessly and stalks away. Eazy-peasy, should have done that long ago.
But then she’s back, this time wearing an apron. She takes my arm and we march. I think we must be going to the kitchen, after all she’s wearing the cooking apron. But we bypass the door and hustle down the hall. She deposits me in the bathroom, right in front of the vanity counter.
“That naughty tongue is going to learn,” she says, filling the sink with water. I watch as she scrubs up a mountain of bubbles with the Ivory soap. Then she lets the bar slip from between her palms and it bobs in the cloudy lake she just created.
I can’t look at the white, bubbling, cloud, but when I avert my eyes, they land on the hairbrush, sitting nearby. I look back to the soapy soup.
Deliberately Mother takes a washcloth and soaks it in the filmy water. When she sets it on the side of the sink, some water spills onto the countertop, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she’s busy positioning herself behind me, aproned chest firmly against the back of my head. She leans forward, and in turn I am thrust over the sink, my face nearly touching the suds. Her left hand digs into my hair and she turns my head to the right. I see her free hand go for the washcloth.
Without any hesitation she dips the washcloth once more into the water then rubs it across my lips. “Open your mouth,” she commands.
With a groan, I do, and the washcloth invades, rough and bitter against my tongue. Then it’s out again. Dip and back in, swishing and swirling all around my teeth and gums as well as my tongue. Involuntarily my head tries to swim out of the way but her hold is firm. Suds run down my chin, and I groan again.
“This is how to deal with insolent boys,” she says.
The washcloth is out. “I’m sorry, Mother!” I gasp, hoping for mercy.
“I certainly hope so,” she says, and fills my mouth again.
I choke and gag, adding a bit of extra theatrics to the ordeal in hopes it will stop.
She sets the washcloth aside, again dribbling all over the counter, and I think it’s over. But that damn soap is still floating right in front of my face. I watch her chase the slippery bar, and once it’s captured, a thick, white, half-dissolved curd squishes between her fingers.
“Open.”
With dread, I do.
She slides the slimy bar between my lips and steps away. I rise.
“Look in the mirror.” She takes my head and makes sure I can see myself. I’m drenched, with half of the white bar protruding from between my lips, which curl back away from the invader like a dog about to bite.
“Hold it just like that. Don’t drop it,” Mother says.
In misery, I nod, not quite sure what’s to come next.
Mother reaches down and shoves my jeans and underwear to my knees and with pressure on my back, makes me lean forward onto my hands. Then she picks up the brush.
“MMMMph!” My guttural protest goes ignored.
Smack! The brush lands on my right cheek.
Smack! The brush lands on the left.
Hard and fast, back and forth, as I strain forward against the sink, biting down on the soap. Tears stream, and mix with the frothy mess dribbling down my chin onto my chest. With my mouth full, I can’t even cry out, I can’t promise to be good, or beg for her to stop. I bite down hard as the burn becomes intense.
Finally, she stops. I hear the clatter as the brush is returned to the drawer, and then the bar wiggles in my mouth as Mother reaches to dislodge it. I open wider this time, anxious for it to be gone, and let the thickened saliva drool into the soapy sink water.
Mother pulls the stopper and the sink begins to drain. She runs fresh water, and lets me rinse my mouth. As I swish at the bitterness, she holds the bar of Ivory under the cold stream, and as the runny mass of bubbles and spit are whisked away, an impression of my teeth appears, carved deep into the soft surface.
“Look at that,” Mother says, turning it from side to side in front of my face. With a smile that let’s me know she’s satisfied that justice has been served, she sets the bar on the little shelf just above the sink. “Leave this here, don’t touch it.” She opens a new bar and places it in the dish for regular use.
She slips out, and leaves me standing there, pants puddled at my ankles, bottom burning, mouth still full of the unpleasant, acrid taste. I stare at the artifact of today’s punishment. It’s going to sit there for who knows how long, a mocking reminder of not only what just happened, but what could easily happen next time.
Next time. Yuk. I’ll do almost anything to get out of another round of Mother’s washcloth treatment.