With Dignity and Elegance

BabyMan will be the first to tell you that I cry really easily. Too easily as far as he's concerned.  And no offense to all of you out there who say you can take a spanking without a tear or the occasional gut wrenching sob, but I find that absolutely… unbelievable. The pain of having my bottom burned by a paddle accompanied by a scathing diatribe on how I’ve disappointed him is enough to have me screaming into, and completely soaking through an extra firm pillow. But I have spoken to many women within a forum and through blogs, who can actually bend over, take 30 or 40 stripes with a cane, and never utter a sound or move an inch. A friend sent me a video on Spankingtube of a woman who was being whipped with several different medieval torture devices, and remained relatively quiet as a mouse (she cries slighly, but if it were me, they'd be able to hear me in Afghanistan) while her behind turned a deep purple before my very eyes.  Even more amazing, she remains perfectly still.  There was no cutting or splicing of the tape for the opportunity to apply makeup to her bottom for effect.  This was real, up close and personal.  I found myself screaming at the computer screen, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET UP!  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"

Okay, part of my angst is jealousy. I’ve given it my best shot when being punished to take it without fighting, squirming and crying like a 4-year-old. I believe there’s something to be said for taking a spanking with peace, serenity and total acceptance, and this is what I want to achieve.

A friend of mine, Jade Alanson, wrote a series of books about an entire family of brothers all in domestic discipline marriages, as well as the parents. My favorite character in this series is Kathleen Brady, the matriarch of the clan, who has been in a dd relationship so long, she has come to take her spankings with poise and elegance. I suppose I identify with her mostly because she’s closer to my own age, and she has a degree of wisdom, humor, and quiet dignity that I admire.  I can see her in my mind’s eye, striking a balance as she hangs on to her pride and a measure of humility at the same time. As Jade describes her, "No matter how much she knew a punishment was inevitable, she had her little ways of offering resistance with a last unspoken gesture of defiance.” And throughout her punishment she speaks to her husband in in a calm, rational demeanor that impressed me enough to want to emulate her class.

Kathleen Brady!  What a babe! This is who I want to be, because it speaks of self respect and acceptance. It also takes a drop of power out of his hands and puts it in mine for just a fleeting moment as it assumes my own consent and cooperation.

So every time I hear the words, “Go get the paddle and wait for me in the den,'" a couple of things cross my mind. The first is Oh My God, how am I gonna get outta this? And once I’ve accepted the fact that I’m trapped, I think, Kathleen Brady. I need to act like Kathleen Brady. She’s elegant and strong, and she accepts her fate with dignity and grace. I need to remain still, not fight or squirm, and do my very best to keep quiet. I need to…

“AAAAAAAH! OH GOD! THAT HURTS! NO BABY, PLEASE… PLEASE… PLEASE… AAAAAH! OH GOD, HELP ME, AAAAAAAH..."

So why is this so difficult for me? Where do I go to acquire the nobility and decorum that I so desperately want to portray? I don’t want to constantly be screaming and sobbing like I’m being tortured, running the risk of having the neighbors call the police because the sounds from our unit lead them to believe that I’m being slowly murdered.  Some of my tears and yelling is a reaction to BabyMan’s disappointment in me, but most of it is a reaction to the pain. That paddle stings to no end, I am in constant anticipation that another strike is going to grace the same general area, and intensify the burn.  The anticipation alone causes me to squeal like a pig.

The downside of taking a spanking the way I desire to with little sound or agonizing, is that I believe that BabyMan will note my silence and assume that he is not getting through to me. If there’s no audible evidence of pain and suffering, he will no doubt wield that paddle with more force and determination in order to achieve his goal. So I’m trapped in somewhat of a dichotomy.  Even if I do ever get to the point in my life where I can display the quiet, calm elegance during one of the most painful and humiliating sessions of my life, I run the risk of creating a more sever punishment by virtue of my silence.

So I will admire from afar the people I have come to know as my models of feminine strength.  And I will forever remain really really... loud.            

Just Cause, or Just 'Cuz?

The more I learn about ttwd, the more I am aware that we are coming into our own identity as a couple. I remember the day I asked BabyMan to spank me the first time. I made it clear that my derriere was my most sensitive erogenous zone, and that just touching it will set me off and turn me into a aggressive sexual commando. I had absolutely no interest in being punished or corrected or disciplined. I was after eroticism, and today, ten years after that initial conversation with him, he accommodates me at least once a week in that area.

But something's happened that I hadn't expected. My man turned into a spanko lunatic. Not only is he finding opportunities to put me over his knee, but now sometimes those opportunities aren't even verbalized or justified. And when I press for explanation, more and more I receive the answer of, "Just 'Cuz."

Does this mean Just because I can, or just because It (my butt) is there, or just because I feel like it? Or is it Just Cause, as in Your behavior over the last few days has given me just cause to burn your butt for your sarcasm, your disrespect and your disobedience?

The latter Just Cause explanation has usually been the norm. It's usually a culmination of his irritation with all the things that I may or may not be aware of over the past 10 days or so. Sometimes more frequent. and I'm beginning to be able to see the subtle signs that there's a storm brewing behind those eyes of patience and wisdom. In giving him a bit of my own brand of attitude every once in a while, the problem usually lies in my timing. My sarcasm can actually be quite adorable, if I must say so myself, and quite often he relishes in my sense of humor. But there are times when he's clearly not in the mood. These are the times I need to be more aware of his temperament.

Recently a new reader commented on my last post in appreciation of BabyMan's innovative style when planning Submission day. In it she exclaimed that I have the "Ideal husband."

As much as I love it when BabyMan's head gets huge and can't fit through the door, I felt, for some reason, that I needed to deflate it just a bit. Nothing overly rude or disrespectful... just an answer to her comment suggesting that I was responsible for molding him into the ideal husband.

Now, while BabyMan is at work, he tends to pop into my comment section a couple of times a day. For some reason, I suspect, my comment didn't quite sit well with him. He then wrote a comment making sure that I understood that he was not pleased. This was the last thing added to his list of all the little things that aren't worth spanking over on their own, but accumulated, created Just Cause for a maintenance spanking.

When he got home that night, he was his usual upbeat, cheerful self. He kissed me and said, "So... you're molding me, huh?"

"Come on, Baby, I was only playing..." I giggled. I grabbed his face with my hands and looked into his eyes. "That didn't really bother you, did it?"

"Bother me? No," he smiled good naturedly. "I know you're molding me, Sweetie. I know I am a product of your creative desire." He kissed me again and disappeared into the bedroom to change.

I'm not quite sure what to think when I can't read him. I've known this man for 13 years, and he can read my every facial expression, body language. Every sound that comes out of my mouth and every scent that comes off of my body tells him what I'm thinking or feeling. He prides himself on knowing every nuance of my psyche. He calls himself a Sugarologist with a Doctorate degree in the study of SugarAnne.

But me, I'm still working on my bachelors in BabyManology. He can sport a pokerface that can keep me guessing right up until the last second... and today was no exception.

After dinner he announced that we were going to engage in a little maintenance, and I was to get the paddle and meet him in the den. He still had that good natured, big hearted smile on his face.

These things usually take me by surprise, and I wind up staring at him, with a dozen thoughts flying through my head. Is this gonna hurt? What did I do? How many things over the last few days am I getting spanked for? Was that "molding him" crack the catalyst for all of this? Why does he have that stupid grin on his face? Is this a joke? Is he serious?

"Sugar?"

I'm snatched out of my thoughts and back into reality. "What?"

"You're hesitating again. I think you should move.   Now."

I realize that my jaw is still on the floor. I close my mouth and walk into the bedroom to retrieve the paddle and go to the den to wait for him.

When he came in I was told to stand up, drop my pants and turn around. He simply begins slapping me on my upper cheeks as I stood there holding my shirt out of the way. This is almost more painful than the sitspot.

I'm frustrated. I'm being spanked as hard as a punishment spanking, and he's not giving me any information. And he's still smiling.  Just what does he have to be so cheerful about?

This is driving me crazy. I have to try to get some answers out of him. "Come on, Baby, you can't be mad at that comment about molding you."

"I never said I was."

"So what are you mad about?"

"Nothing Sweetheart. I love you, and I just love being molded by you."

Dammit, he keeps bringing that up! "Then why are you spanking me?" I squeal through gritted teeth.

"Just 'cuz"

Just Cause? Just 'Cuz?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He grabbed me and pulled me over his lap and began slapping my sit spot with the paddle. Hard. My hand is on his ankle and he informs me that if I remove my hand from his ankle, it'll be worse for me.

I held it there as long as I could while the spanking became longer and harder and more painful. I held in the screams and eventually let them fly into the pillow.  I began apologizing (for what, I'm not sure) but I figure this is what he wants to hear. I'm on fire now, and begin to struggle, bucking my body and my legs up with every swat. BabyMan takes his elbows and pushes both halves of my body back down forcefully and delivers the next scorching swat that causes me to buck again. At some point my hand came off his ankle, and flew behind me to protect myself.

"Move your hand," I heard him say sternly. I nervously placed my hand back on his ankle.

I'm not getting the usual lecture enumerating my many infractions over the last few days, I'm not getting any information at all. Just a spanking that is so long and hard that I'm beginning to cry.

When I realize that he has finally stopped, my mind is consumed by a combination of fatigue and confusion. I'm breathing hard, as I lie there, waiting for him to give me permission to move. After about a minute, I hear him give the okay. I push myself up and kneel next to him on the couch as I rub my bottom and squint at him through watery eyes, still trying to read his face. Finally I asked "What the hell was that all about?"

"Nothing, Darling. I just love you, and I love being molded by you." His eyes narrowed.

My mouth flew open. "You ARE upset about that! Are you kidding me?"

"No, Dear, I'm not upset by that at all." His voice is even tempered, calm, loving, almost musical.

He's playing with me now. I wiped the water from my eyes.

Then he said, "I want you to hug me and thank me."

"Thank you? What for?" I whined.

"I want you to thank me for allowing you to mold me."

He saw that I was hesitating again as I stared at him in disbelief.

"Now," he was smiling and stern at the same time.

I figured I better obey him at this point. I put my arms around him and kissed him on the lips and said, "thank you for... letting me... mold you." I felt silly... embarrassed... pissed. When I pulled away and saw his face, his eyes were full of a twinkle of humor and amusement.

"Go to bed and wait for me," he commanded.

I wanted to scream, No! Not until you tell me what the hell just happened here! But from what little I could read on his face, he wasn't about to offer up explanations. I went and got in bed, and when he came in, we made love passionately as my 400 thread count sheets felt like sandpaper against my freshly paddled bottom.

This happened several days ago, and to this day he's never explained why the maintenance was so severe that day. He never admitted to being angry, he never enumerated my past misdeeds. His only explanation was that he loved me.  But I think he wanted me to know just who, indeed, is molding who.

And that is Just 'Cuz.

Submission Day

After BabyMan and I spent an hour in the gym Saturday morning, we came back for what I thought would be a relaxing day at home. But when I emerged from the shower, BabyMan says something that stops me cold and drops my jaw to the floor. "Sugar," he says, "I want you to girl up. We're going to have a submission day."

I stare at him for a moment, blink a couple of times. "Would you repeat that please?"

"Today is Submission Day. We're going out to do some shopping and then to lunch and a movie.  And we're going to dedicate the entire day to working on your submission."

I don't know whether to laugh or look around for something to throw at him. "And what's wrong with the way I submit?"

"Needs... refining." He had a no nonsense look on his face that I couldn't quite read. Was this a joke?  He walked over to the wall where we keep the leather paddle hanging on a hook, grabbed it and said, "I want you to girl up," (a term he coined meaning to wear something feminine, do the hair, make-up, etc.) "and meet me in the den."

Now, if you've read this blog at all, you know that the words "meet me in the den" mean that I'm going to wind up over his knee for one thing or another. At this point my jaw is still on the floor as I watch him walk out of the room. I want to argue, I want to demand answers, I need an explanation. I haven't done anything wrong!

Think, Sugar, think! He thinks your submission is below standard... to argue now is not the best idea at the moment. Just do what he tells you and find out what this is all about later.

I picked a form fitting sweater and a tight linen skirt, applied eyeliner, lipstick, and a spritz of the perfume he gave me for Christmas. I walked into the den to find him sitting on the couch with a pillow on his knees, something he usually does to make my behind rise higher over his lap. Now I'm beginning to get nervous.

"There's a paper on the printer," he said. "Take it off, lay over my knees and read it to me."

I bit my lip as I felt my forehead wrinkle. What could I have possibly done to...?

"Now, SugarAnne. This is about submission. Don't hesitate." He smiled. "Oh, and by the way, take off your panties. You won't be needing them."

I won't be needing them? What does that mean? What the hell is he up to?

I peeled my panties down my legs and stepped out of them, grabbed the paper off the printer and placed myself over the pillow. Once I was settled in and BabyMan had lifted my skirt to my waist, I began to read aloud.

The paper was titled Submission Day Guidelines. It was a list of how I am to conduct myself in a submissive manner to his specifications during our day out together. the first section was the requirements for what I was to wear for the day. I am to be girled up, wearing a skirt, feminine blouse, no panties... I turned to look at him. "Are you kidding? No panties? All day? Out in public?" I squealed.

He slapped my bare behind hard with the paddle. "Keep reading!"

I turned back to the paper. The second section were his expectations of how I am to conduct myself when we are in the position of standing in line at a store or restaurant. I am to stand behind him with my arms around his waist, and If I desire to be released to go off on my own, I am to ask permission by whispering in his ear. He will either release me or turn down my request. otherwise I am to stay connected to him at all times by either holding his hand or hooking my finger through his belt loop while we are standing or on the move.

When ordering in a restaurant, I am to make my selection, tell him, and he will order for me.  I am to allow him to open all doors for me including the car door. When going up stairs, I am to be in front of him and behind him when descending stairs for my protection against falling. I am to wait for him to pull out my chair, and when I stand to go to the ladies room he will stand in reverence and respect to my femininity (I like that part).  Wow, this is kind of cool.  It's almost like stepping back into the 50's, but I'm not wearing any panties!

After I read the entire list, he explained that for each infraction I would receive five strokes with the bath brush, or as he affectionately calls it, "the heatstroke".

The day was to be an exercise in submission, self control, and appreciation of my freedom. And really, how difficult could it be? The hardest part should be making sure my short skirt doesn't ride up on me and show my bare ass to the world.

Well, the day was a little frustrating for me. I tried hard to make sure I remembered each requirement, and act according to the guidelines, but I dropped the ball several times during the day. We went to a store where we picked out four skirts together (he wanted to make sure I had enough regulation skirts for upcoming submission days) we ran a few errands, then went to lunch where I made my first infraction. I opened my own door to go into the restaurant, and that's when he informed me that I had just earned 5 strokes. He had said it with such good humor and affection that I found it hard to believe that he would actually spank me with my second most feared implement (the belt being my first) over something so minor. I mean, this was still really a game, right?

At one point while standing on an escalator with BabyMan behind me, he used the umbrella we brought with us to lift my skirt from behind while there was a man within viewing distance. I instinctively slapped it away and snapped, "Stop it!" This is when I was informed that I have to accept and welcome any way he chooses to touch me regardless of who may or may not be in the vicinity, or what I may or may not be wearing. He didn't add five more strokes because he added that rule off the top of his head, which he reserves the right to do. I was mortified... and a little turned on.

We had such a great day, wandering around an outdoor mall before a 5:00 showing of Date Night. Unfortunately I blew it 3 more times, rushing in front of him on the way down a flight of stairs, drifting away from him to look at items in a store without his permission, and opening my own door again in a book store. I almost made another mistake when I planned on leaving the movie theater to get more butter on my popcorn, when he stopped me and informed me that not only am I to ask permission to leave him, but serving my needs was his job, and I was to ask him to do it for me (I like that part, too).

There was something about the whole idea of being totally submissive to his will and desires that I have to admit, excites me a little. BabyMan has always given me a freedom of which I've heard other women express an envy, and I've always appreciated that I'm not micro-managed, or given the third degree about my whereabouts and activities.  This Submission Day exercise was a complete turn around to what I'm used to. In a strange way, I liked it... even though I suck at it.

When we arrived home, I was relaxed and comfortable until he told me to get the heatstroke and the paddle. I was going to get my fun, slap and tickle spanking that I love so much, but I also had 25 painful strokes coming to me from that damned bath brush.  Okay, so this wasn't a game any more.

I don't know why I hadn't taken him seriously all day, but it was time to pay the piper. I'm assuming that Submission Day will be a tradition in our marriage from now on, and it looks like I have a lot of work to do in order to avoid the consequences. These guidelines don't seem really difficult to the naturally submissive type, but that's not me. It never has been. 

But I have a feeling...It will be.

Procrastinator's Creed

The "task" situation is getting a little in the way of my bliss. Not the fact that I have tasks to complete, but the fact that I am too often screwing it up in this area. What is my problem, anyway? BabyMan gives me something important to do, and all I have to do is get it done by the time he gets home. How difficult is that? I'm a hopeless procrastinator and time never seems to be on my side.  I wind up hurrying to get things done at the very last minute, and nine times out of ten I make it just under the wire.

But that tenth time...

So BabyMan decided one morning that the refrigerator is housing some pretty interesting science projects, and it needed to be detailed like a car. He meets me in the kitchen, leather paddle in hand, to discuss my all important task for the day. He points out the grime in the cracks and crevases, the expiration dates on bottles and jars, the leftovers that are growing hair...

All I can do is stare at that paddle. "Why are you wagging that thing around?" I ask rather irritated because... I HATE cleaning the refrigerator.

"Because you tend to listen better when I have it with me."

"So you think you have to threaten me for me to obey you?"

BabyMan just smiled. "I don't want there to be any misunderstanding, that's all." He waved the paddle at the open fridge. "By the time I get home, am I clear?"

"Crystal," I say caustically.

He kissed and fondled me before he grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door.

Now, I have every intention of having this done in time. It's a big job, so I figured I'll get half of it done early before I get dressed and go to the gym, and the other half in the afternoon.

My workout this day was a bit intense, I'd been trying out some changes in my routine in order to get over a plateau that I had experienced for a couple of weeks. On the way home I stopped off at the store to pick up ingredients for dinner and my lunch.

When I got to my front door with my groceries and gym bag, I noticed that I didn't have my keys with me. But they were right... I could have sworn... Oh no!  I ran back to the car and there, in the ignition were those damned keys, and on the passenger seat was my cell phone. And the door... was... locked!  I think I stared at those keys for a full ten minutes with my nose pressed against the glass like a hungry puppy staring at a steak.

Now, it's cold in April where we live, and mind you, I'm still in a sweaty tee shirt and shorts, and I'm freezing. Most of my neighbors are at work this time of day, and I can't get in my home, or in my car. I haven't made this mistake in 15 years. I'm stranded, feeling foolish, exhausted and frustrated.

Now, to make a long story short, I did finally flag down a neighbor and used his cell to call BabyMan who works in an office about 25 miles away. Now, BabyMan's a man of good humor, and he thought the whole thing was pretty funny, and was happy to leave work to come all the way home and open my car and let me in the house. But by the time I settled in, warmed up and had something to eat, I was overtaken by fatigue. Between my workout and standing in the cold in wet, sweaty clothes, all I wanted at that point was to lie down just for a few minutes so I could get my second wind...

I awoke at... 4:45! I was only supposed to sleep for a few minutes! What the hell happened? I jump out of bed and dash to the kitchen. Not only had I not finished the refrigerator, but the rest of the kitchen is still a mess from breakfast and lunch, and a few remnants from last night's dinner. I can't let BabyMan walk in with it looking like this. I zoomed around in a magical sped-up motion the way Samantha on Bewitched used to when she wanted to get something done before Darrin walked in. I loaded the dishwasher, scrubbed a pot, washed the wine glasses and polished the marble countertop in record speed. Then I  removed what seemed like a thousand bottles from the refrigerator door and began to dismantle the shelves when I heard the key in the door. I look at the clock. 4:58!

"You're early!" I yelled nervously. He habitually walks in that door every evening at 5:00 on the nose. Dammit, I want my 2 minutes.

BabyMan spots the mess of bottles on the island in the kitchen. "What happened?" he asks with a disturbing wrinkle in his forehead.

"I don't know. I fell asleep." It sounds like a really lame excuse, especially from someone who only had one thing she was expected to accomplish for the day. "My workout was really hard, and... I didn't have enough for breakfast... and.... I... I was really cold when I got locked out, and..."  I was sounding whiney and pathetic.

He said nothing, walked over to me and kissed me on the forehead, then left to change clothes. When he comes out, he has the paddle in his hand, places it on the arm of the couch, sits down and turns on the television. "Why don't you finish cleaning the fridge, make dinner, and we'll take care of this after American Idol."

He seemed so calm, so relaxed. I almost miss the days when he'd raise his voice when he was angry. But I'm not sure he's even angry. I think he's just rationally resigned himself to the fact that we now have a way to handle my procrastination problem, and there's no reason or need for drama.

I took my time on the last of the refrigerator, made him a really nice chicken dish with vegetables and rice, and poured him a glass of wine. American Idol was a 2-hour special that night, and when it was half way through he turned to me and said, "I want you to get the bath brush and meet me in the den wearing only your panties."

The bath brush? The BATH BRUSH? I was a little confused and a lot scared. Usually for an unfinished task, I am expected to bend over the bed, lower my jeans and take about 12 to 15 whacks with the paddle. The bath brush? The den? Panties only? What was going on? Maybe he was really angry.

I had to think fast. "The show isn't over yet.  Don't you want to see who get's eliminated?"

"Not necessary.  I'm recording it."

"You know," I touched him sensually on the thigh,  "you don't have to spank me. There's no rule that says you have to."  I was grasping at straws now.

BabyMan smiled almost sadly. "Maybe not in your world," he said. "The problem is that we could have spent a really nice evening together.  I was really looking forward to hanging out with my wife tonight.  All you had to do was one thing, and you decided you didn't respect me enough to put in the effort."

"No! that's not true! I..."  I was so hurt. I never wanted him to think that I didn't care.  I had to defend myself.

"This is not up for discussion," he said before I could formulate my argument in my head. "Go get ready."

God, I hate it when he says that.

In the den he sat on the couch and put a couple of pillows between his feet, opening his legs wide to fit my body between his knees. "kneel here," he said. I obeyed but couldn't look at him. He lifted my chin with the paddle. "I'm wondering if maybe you enjoy being in this position."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes. "No," I said quietly. "I hate it."

"Apparently you don't hate it enough. Sugar, all your spankings should be sexual, erotic.  Fun. This is supposed to be our time together.  Now I've got to spend my evening punishing you because you don't respect me."

As I lay across his lap, I realize that maybe BabyMan saw something in me that I had become unaware of. I think maybe I had started to take my unfinished task spankings for granted. It's become too easy to blow off what's expected of me, knowing that I only have to take a few mildly uncomfortable whacks for a few seconds out of my life. I had made a sincere effort to drop the annoying habit of procrastination, a habit that had plagued and interfered with my life for years, only to find comfort and complacency in it's consequences.

This was the most intense punishment I've had for not completing a task.  It was never supposed to be like this.  It ranked right up there with the spankings I received for smoking after my quit date, and the fiasco of walking out on him during our last argument.  I actually tried to maintain my composure, and keep from screaming and crying like I was being tortured, but that only lasted about 6 seconds. And if the pain wasn't bad enough, I think 60% of my tears were stemming from the lecture I received while he's punishing my bottom with the bath brush. "I'm wondering if I can trust you now... I'm starting to question your integrity... If you really wanted to obey me you could have set your alarm to wake you up in time... I don't think you respect me... "

I sobbed and screamed until I was again exhausted, and for someone who had recently had 4 hours sleep in the middle of the afternoon, I was led back to bed where my sore bottom was pampered with lotion, and I was tucked in for the night where I cried myself to sleep... again.

Yet I still staunchly live by the procrastinator's creed.... that even after all the trauma of this last punishment, I sit here typing at 4:30 pm. I have a task of shredding a box of documents before BabyMan get's home in a half an hour, and somehow I am confident that I can get it done in the last five minutes before he walks in the door.

Old habits...

The Secret Remains a Secret

For the past 4 years BabyMan has been a pastor in a section of our city for the population that is, for a lack of a better word, displaced. Many of them are dealing with addiction issues, homelessness, joblessness, post prison struggles, as well as those who are just uncomfortable attending a traditional church and simply want to explore their relationship with God in a more relaxed environment. He has carved out a reputation in our neighborhood as a man who can be trusted and counted on when in need of spiritual counsel and advice on rebuilding their lives.

After officially opening our church in the park in 2006, we began to get requests from people who were interested in getting married, and are looking not only for him to perform the service, but also for premarital counseling. BabyMan and I had obtained our certifications in Christian Counseling a few years ago, so we spend a good deal of time in sessions with those who have come to us for help in a myriad of circumstances.

Recently we have had sessions with couples who are constantly arguing and demonstrating a general disrespect and animosity toward each other in public. People who have had difficult lives have had to build a wall of defense in order to protect themselves even from those they profess to love. We get that. We also understand that without a willingness to put this behavior behind them, their marriage will be fraught with emotional manipulation, deceit and resentment from which they may never recover.

But how do we counsel a couple who is challenged with the same constant bickering that we were plagued with before we incorporated domestic discipline in our lives. How do we explain to them the impact that domestic discipline, properly implemented, can have in making a difference not just in one's marriage but in other aspects of their lives?

How do we explain the politically incorrect concept of a male-led household when all their lives they've dreamt of the 50-50 marriage and equal partnership? It would be great to be able to express that a head of household learns through DD to be a champion, a protector, a man of integrity and credibility. That a woman turns her home into his sanctuary, his soft place to land through respect, obedience and graciousness. How is it explained that this is not violence, but a loving means to grow closer in the marriage relationship by resolving issues expediently and correcting damaging behavior that can destroy intimacy?

For those of our congregants who are exhibiting certain qualities (integrity, credibility and maturity) BabyMan and I are troubled that our hands are tied. We are convinced that we hold the answer to the challenges that a few of our couples suffer from, and we can't give it to them!   It's almost like holding the keys to the kingdom of God through the Gospel, and not releasing it for fear that they'll think we're crazy.  To explain the precepts of domestic discipline to one of our congregants, only to have him possibly misunderstand his responsibility and take it to violent level, would put us in a state of liability. Imagine a man being arrested for mercilessly beating his wife and when asked why replies, "My pastor told me to."

For now we have resigned to using our experience in ballroom dancing to approach the idea of the male-led household.  The guidance of the man through his steps and his hands, and her willingness to follow is a testament to a couple's ability to work through the pitfalls of marriage.  And as we teach the Foxtrot and the Waltz, we teach leadership and obedience through mutual respect.

But I wonder... have any of you ever suggested ttwd to someone you know who would appreciate and benefit from it?  When your friends ask why you and your spouse get along so well, do you let them in on your secret or do you pass up the opportunity and watched your friend's marriage drown before your eyes without throwing them a life jacket?

It May be Important!

The word "task" in our home is one to be taken seriously. When BabyMan tells me there's something he wants me to do by the time he gets home, he will sometimes end the request with "I'm tasking you on this, Sugar," that means I don't get to blow it off, or procrastinate until it's too late. It might be something he's noticed needs fixing or cleaning around the house, or getting in touch with my doctor about a physical problem I'm experiencing, or gathering information and data regarding a trip we need to take... whatever the task is, I am expected to give it top priority.

I'm usually pretty good at completing tasks. My motivation is always to please him, and a little to avoid punishment. But on those occasions when I fail to obey him on these things, I'm usually ordered to pull down my pants and bend over the bed while he takes the leather paddle to my behind. And during these times, he repeats something over and over like a mantra. "You gotta complete your tasks, Sugar. At some point it may be important. At some point it may be life or death!"

For a long time, I've wanted to look over my shoulder as I am posed over the bed taking my whacks and ask, "C'mon, Baby, how important can it be? You just wanted me to clean the kitchen tile grout. It's not like it can't be done tomorrow." Of course making this query in this position is not the best idea I've ever had, so I remain quiet.

But it just occurred to me recently how very important obedience is to BabyMan. I was reminded of a day several years ago when he preached a sermon on obedience to God. He illustrated through this old African parable:

A father was walking toward his grown son on a rainy day, and observed him talking to a friend of his as they stood under a tree to keep dry. Suddenly the father to his son, yelled out "Son, drop to your knees and crawl over to me immediately!"

The son, without question or a moment's hesitation, dropped to his knees, and crawled through the rain and mud over to his father who waited for him ten yards away. The friend, who remained under the tree was appalled at the humiliating way the father treated his child, and walked away in disgust.

The son looked up at his father and never attempted to demand an explanation. However, the father pointed toward the tree and said, "As I watched you, I could see from my vantage point that a poisonous snake was hovering over your head in the tree ready to strike you. I had no time to explain, only to command. Had you not obeyed me, you would have been killed."

This is what BabyMan's been driving at all this time. Although we did agree that he would help me keep on top of the housework, the task itself was never important enough to punish over. It was the disobedience that could tear us apart, as it was constantly in danger of doing before we incorporated DD in our relationship. He wanted me to trust him so completely that if he suddenly told me to get down in the mud and crawl to him, I would do it without question. And if I obey him on little things like the kitchen tile grout, How much more likely am I to obey him on something of great importance, or a matter of life and death?

I remember getting into a discussion with him after that sermon about the relationship of the father and son. There was an unconditional trust there, that, while admirable, I found a bit unrealistic. How many relationships are void of resentment, old wounds, mistrust, battle fatigue, and egomaniacal motivation? I remember thinking that trust and obedience like that has to be earned over time.

I've now come to the realization that BabyMan has earned my trust. Since we started ttwd in October of last year, he has never broken a promise to me, and never put me down in order to elevate himself. He has protected me, provided for me, and has taught me to communicate for the betterment of out relationship (although I admit that's something I still have to work on). And to be honest, this is who he was before October. But there's something about our new relationship that has caused him to grow as a husband and a human being that I'm appreciating more and more, and my willingness to submit to his every word had begun to reflect that appreciation. Why shouldn't I get down on my knees and crawl to him in the mud?

My reason for obeying his every word shouldn't be to avoid punishment, but to have him trust me the way I trust him. I can only hope that I've come close to that ideal.  So on average he has to reach for that paddle only about once a month for acts of disobedience as far as my "tasks" are concerned.

I'm workin' on it, I'm workin' on it!

I'm Still In Here!

The hormonal imbalances that cause my bouts of depression hit me hard and fast out of nowhere, like those cartoons where Bugs Bunny gets an anvil dropped on his head, and stars dance around his cranium while his eyeballs roll around in their sockets like marbles. To my credit, they are happening less frequently, and I have been cheerful, productive and good humored 90% of my waking hours since Babyman and I have begun out new relationship a few months ago. My marriage is happier, so I am finding more joy in life. But it still happens, and on Monday evening the storm clouds of an unexpected wave of depression moved in on me and I began losing control of my emotions.

These are the times when I desperately want a cigarette, or when I don't want to get out of bed. I'm anxious, irritable, angry at nothing and everything, and poor Babyman is lost in a sea of confusion. Did he do something to upset me? Did he forget something? Did he hurt my feelings somehow? He wisely gives me my space Monday night, hoping it will blow over.

He walks into the bedroom Tuesday morning and catches me pacing back and forth, a clear symptom that I'm about to explode. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Nothing!" I'm snapping at him now. The answer lies in a myriad of possibilities: The weather is cloudy and gray, I'm sluggish, I don't want to go to the gym, I'm disappointed in myself for overeating last night, he's preaching tonight at a ministry across town, and I don't want to spend the evening alone, I have bed head, I don't want to do laundry... A hundred stupid reasons, and not one legitimate one. All I know for sure is that I feel a profound sense of sadness, insecurity, isolation, and it makes me... angry. What the hell is a hormone, anyway? And who gave it permission to take up residence in my body and screw with me like this?

I crawl back in the bed, violently kick the covers to the floor as I grab the top sheet and pull it over my head. Babyman knows I need some time alone, so he walks out to continue his morning routine. I hear the shower, his electric razor, and I begin to cry like an idiot.. I'm mostly crying because I don't know what's bothering me, and I'm taking it out on the sweetest guy in the world.

Before long he comes into the bedroom and dresses. I'm curled up in the fetal position hoping he doesn't try to communicate with me because I have no control over how I'll respond.

Finally he appears at the side of the bed and informs me that he's leaving. I kick the sheet off and sit up, but can't look at him. A few months ago I would have just mumbled an abrupt goodbye, and let him walk out the door, but he made it clear that that's not acceptable anymore. When he leaves, we have to have physical contact, and some semblance of communication. Okay. So I sit up and wait for him to bend down and hug me. I can't take the initiative myself. I'm lost in my own misery.

He sees I've been crying. He's more than familiar with this scene. "You need to get to the gym today," he says. "you'll feel better."

"Yeah," I mumble.

"Sugar..."

"What?"

"Baby, you need to pull yourself out of this, or... I'm going to have to go in and get you." He always had an interesting way of putting things. The idea that his loving wife is being held captive against her will inside the outer shell of a crazy lunatic bitch was really not far off the mark.  Part of me wants to scream, "I'm still in here!  Don't give up on me!"

I finally make eye contact. I know exactly what he means by coming in to get me. The whole concept of spanking me out of my depression has been effective.  Somehow it replaces the diminished endorphins, and causes me to purge myself of pent up anger and frustration and the horrible feeling of anguish from an unknown source. It works. But it also hurts, and God, how I hate it.

When he says this, I try to smile. I don't want to be spanked. I want to try to handle this myself even though I know it'll take all day, and I may not succeed by the time he gets home tonight. "I'll be okay," I say. I don't think my pathetic smile is fooling him for a moment.

He grabs a hold of my arm and lifts me to my feet and presses me against him. I breath in his scent of cologne and deodorant and mouthwash. I hold my breath in an attempt to keep from bursting into tears.

When he walks out, and I hear him lock the door behind him, I collapse on the bed, and start crying again. How am I going to get through this day? I decide that my best bet is to try and go back to sleep. After about five minutes, I hear a key in the door. He's back. He probably forgot his glasses, or maybe his phone. I wipe my eyes and remain still. Maybe he'll just get what he forgot, and leave again without feeling the need to check on me.

Suddenly I feel a tap on my leg. I look over my shoulder, and he's standing there with the paddle in his hand. "Come in the den," he says.

"What? Why? I thought..."

He disappears from the door, and I'm compelled to follow him. He 's sitting on the couch, two pillows are on the floor between his feet. It's me! He came back for me!

"You're going to be late," I say.

"I don't care," he says. "You're more important. I couldn't leave you like this."

"I'm okay, really."

"No you're not.Come' on baby, let's just do this. You'll feel better."

I slowly get in front of him and drop to my knees onto the pillows between his legs. He gently guides me over one knee and tells me to lift my nightshirt. He wants me to do it myself because he wants my willing participation. I obey. I feel him lean down and kiss me on the small of my back. I start crying almost uncontrollably. I feel him tighten his grip around my waist and he begins slapping my behind with the paddle, gently at first, but then a steady rhythm ensues, harder and harder. I'm sobbing now. I can hear him talking to me, and I'm really only picking up the gist of what he's saying. "Love you... I know you're in there... Come back to me... need you to feel better... need you...hang in there... you can do it... I want you back. You gotta come back to me... " the strikes of the paddle are getting harder, more deliberate. My backside is on fire, and he shows no signs of letting up. I'm wiggling now, starting to try to free myself. He holds me tighter. "I know, Sugar, it's almost over," he whispers. I'm bawling into the comforter we keep on the couch.

He finally stops, and I am exhausted, still blubbering and sniveling. He lifts me up and hugs me while I finish crying. "I'm getting your shirt all wet and snotty," I say.

"I don't care." He walks me back to the bedroom and tells me to take a nap. Then he leaves for work while I lay on my stomach and fall into a deep comfortable sleep. I awake 2 hours later. The anger and anxiety are gone. I don't like the fact that my depression can be spanked away like that. It's not a very politically correct thing to admit, and I have a love-hate relationship with the whole concept.
 
But I'm glad he came back for me.  I'm always still in here.