Training

One of my big splurges over the years has been children's books. Most of them are packed away in boxes at the moment since they over ran the book shelves and eventually needed to make way for adult reading but as yet, I can't give a single one of them away. Both the children and I have such strong ties to so many of them. Does anyone know 'Patrick and the dinosaur?' One son was obsessed with dinosaurs and I have a large collection of stories about dinosaurs. But, no story was ever better than Patrick's wonderful imagination when his brother takes him to the zoo. Dinosaurs abound in his imagination, follow him home and even peek into his upstairs bedroom window. All the while his older brother is completely oblivious.

I was wandering about the house doing some housework just before when, for no reason at all, Madeline popped into my head. With three boys and only one girl, it finally dawned on me one day when my children were still young that I had many more books where the hero was a boy than I did a girl and I went about actively seeking out books that were about girls. Of course, I bought the Madeline series:

"In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.."

It is a completely adorable set of books about 12 little girls who are orphans in a Paris convent and Madeleine, bless her soul, is the hardest of all to contain. She finds herself in one scrape after the other. Fortunately, things always end well, as they should for such an adorable, robust and courageous little girl.

I have wondered, from time to time, why I so often conjure up the image of being in a strict boarding school. Although I do feel loved by my parents who send me there, it is a distant, formal sort of love. They don't believe in sparing the rod to spoil the child and it is for my own good that I am sent off to the school with a 'hard as flint' Headmaster.

Often, on the very first day, even before the ordeal has formally begun, I am a witness to what is in store for me at the official 'meet and greet' appointment with the Headmaster. The Headmaster seeks my parents (or often just my father's) confirmation that he understands that corporal punishment is the preferred form of discipline at the school. It never seems to bother my father (or both parents) at all, and they assure him that they are in complete agreement that corporal discipline is a very good thing. 'Headmaster', as they call him, should feel completely free to correct my behaviour in any way he deems effective.

To add to my misery (or should I say, entertainment) he often suggests to my parents that in order for me to understand that all parties are in complete understanding of the measures used to teach me my lessons, a few strokes should be meted out immediately. My parents don't blink at the suggestion and I am invariably told to bend across the Headmaster's desk where my parents can observe his skill at delivering stripes to my bottom that will ensure my compliance of all rules laid down.

There truly is no way out for me. It would be fruitless to send a letter home complaining of my treatment, given that my parents and the Headmaster are clearly in cahoots and I determine very early on that I must make the best of things and do my best to stay out of trouble.

Unfortunately, my best is never good enough. Trouble comes sometimes because my marks are not satisfactory. Interestingly, in this fantasy, it is my French that causes the most difficulty and as well as making regular acquaintance with the Headmaster's cane for the offense of not mastering the language, I spend many a long hour sitting in the detention room writing my vocabulary out, 20, 50, 100 times, until the entire list is committed to memory.

The Matron at my fantasy school in no way endeavours to shelter her girls from the perils of the Headmaster's cane. To the contrary, she makes good use of her wooden backed hairbrush and the slightest sign of untidiness, of a noise in the dormitory after dark, of running in the halls or eating a contraband lolly is met with a long and arduous trip over her knee.

Such offenses are recorded, of course, and a list is sent home to my father along with the academic report at the end of each term. It is customary that all strokes of the cane meted out by the Headmaster are also meted out by a girl's father over the holidays. Thus, a girl in week 1 of the term who receives 6 of the cane will know that she can receive the same amount in her father's study upon her return home a few months later. And so it goes...

Of course, I progress and I progress fast. No relatively smart girl is not going to figure out in short order that it is in her best interests to be outstandingly polite, well behaved and diligent if she should ever wish to sit down again without it being the most awful chore. She understands quickly as well that excuses and complaints will get her nowhere. A girl who tries to justify the unjustifiable quickly discovers that things get so much worse. Much, much better to agree that the behaviour is unacceptable, acknowledge that the behaviour most definitely requires correction and most importantly, offer one's heartfelt thanks for receiving it.

One of the mandates of the school, of course, is to prepare a girl for her fate; that of marriage to a strict man, usually a good ten years older, who will appreciate a well trained girl. My mother was such a girl and my father a man who understands the importance of such training for his daughter as well.

As is the case with Madeleine, the story ends well. I come to appreciate the training I have been given and recognize the importance of it. I meet and marry a man who believes in weekly correction for his wife, adherence to dress code and all his whims, as well as exemplary manners and behaviour. I am blissfully happy with my new life and revel in his attentive care and encouragement.

In real life, I wouldn't be without my family for all the world, but I so often wondered growing up and for many years after that what it might be like to not have a family; to live only with a lovingly strict man and for him to be my world. Of course, I can only wonder and perhaps this is from where this fantasy stems; my efforts to explore that other world that I can only wonder about.

It is interesting though, is it not, that for zillions of years before I entered a power exchange in a formal sense that I was thinking these thoughts, over and over. In some way, it had entered my mind that strictness equalled love and care. And, perhaps more interesting still, that for me, nothing has changed.