Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Meet The Spankos
In previous posts, I introduced you to my wonderful wife, Angela. Now allow me to bring the rest of the family into the story.
I have two beautiful daughters. Maribel will soon be twenty. She just finished her sophomore year at one of our esteemed state universities. She is smart, articulate, athletic, outgoing, and quite popular. Colette is thirteen. She's not as friendly as Maribel, but she is very loyal. Once you are her friend, she will do anything in her power to assist or defend you. C0lette is also incredibly intelligent. She is a voracious reader and is also something of a computer geek. She's also in that awkward time where she is no longer a little child but still a good distance from adulthood. Angela is very good at handling teenage crises, but, for me, they are an endless source of frustration.
Allow me to illustrate that last statement. Shortly after Maribel came home from school this summer, she and Colette planned an outing to the local mega-mall. They said that they were looking for some summer clothes, but more likely they were planning to meet up with friends and look for handsome boys. In any case, I was sitting and leisurely reading the newspaper when Colette strolled by. She had applied a considerable amount of makeup to her young face, and rather poorly.
Being a typical father, I do not understand the female fasination with makeup. To me, it covers up ones natural beauty and can make one look sterile and artificial. So I prefer my girls to keep away from the stuff. Also, I must confess, I am not ready to lose my "little girl," so by having her avoid more mature practices I'm trying to hold on for a few more months.
I stopped Colette and informed her that she was to go back and wash the makeup off of her face. Naturally, she regaled me with the typical teenage whine, but I held firm and she finally returned to the powder room to wash. I returned to my newspaper.
Roughly 15 minutes later, Colette returned. Her face had clearly been cleaned, but I could not fail to notice that she was still wearing a little makeup, more stratigically placed this time. I proceeded to let her know that I was disappointed in her attempt to deceive me by still wearing a little makeup, and again insisted that she remove it.
"But, Daddy," she complained, "Mom put this on for me!"
Now. my recollection was that Angela and I had agreed that the girls were to postpone the wearing of makeup until perhaps their fifteenth year. I was quite confounded that my love would so blantantly diverge from this agreement. However, Colette was not known to tell tales, especially ones that were easy to disprove. So, with my youngest in tow, I went to find Angela.
"My dear," I began when I found her, "did you help Colette apply the bit of makeup that she appears to be wearing?"
"Yes," she responded. "Doesn't she look cute?"
"But darling," I replied, "I thought that we had agreed...."
"Oh, I think she's old enough," interrupted Angela. "Besides, she just needed a little instruction on how to properly apply a couple of things to enhance her beauty."
Before I could fashion a reply, Maribel came by to gush about how nice her sister looked with a little polish applied to her face. She and Angela fussed a little more, and then the girls hurried off to their shopping and socializing excursion.
When the girls left, I asked Angela why she had so blantantly disregarded our earlier agreement. She brushed off my concern. "It's okay," she said. "I felt she was old enough to wear makeup responsibly. And it made her look really good!"
At that point, I was summarily dismissed. Quietly fuming, I returned to my reading, but I could not concentrate. I just stared at the paper, wondering what other rules Angela felt could be broken without consulting with her husband and the girls' father. Would Colette soon be attired in slinky, skimpy little outfits more aprropriate for young adults out bar-hopping and looking for a handsome man with which bed? Would she be wearing mini-skirts and high-heels to school in the fall? I was quite concerned that my little girl was joining the sexual revolution a little earlier than I was comfortable with.
Thirty minutes or so later, I was still ruminating when Angela appeared. She was clad only in a long t-shirt and panties (why are women's underpants referred to as "panties"), and she was carrying one of my favorite wooden hairbrushes. Without saying a word, she took the paper from my hands, handed me the brush, and positioned herself, bottom up, over my lap. After over twenty years of marriage, my Angela does know my moods.
Still without talking, I pulled up her t-shirt and pulled down the panties. I proceeded to paddle her bare butt quite thoroughly, striking one cheek firmly several times and then repeating this on her other orb. She squirmed on my lap and tightly gripped my leg, but she otherwise didn't resist or complain. I worked over both cheeks considerably, then I delivered a handful of swift swats to the backs of her thighs. After a few more whacks to her now-bright red bottom, I concluded the paddling. I do admit, the activity did make me feel better.
Angela rose from my lap and proceed to rub some of the sting out of her pert posterior. She allowed me to inspect the damage. I must admit, I had done quite a fine job. Her backside was uniformly crimson and clearly tender.
At this point, Angela proceeded to explain that she felt the conflicts with Maribel over makeup were not productive, and that, being a woman, she could understand the pressure that a thirteen-year-old girl would feel to begin practicing more adult-like activities. She also pointed out that, if we were to compromise on small things like makeup, that perhaps she would not feel inclined to progress to more advanced subjects like tobacco, alcohol, controlled substances, or, god forbid, sexual activity. Being a typical father, the thought of my "little girl" doing the naked mambo with a horny teenage boy made me uncomfortable, to see the list. So I conceded the point. I did ask, and Angela agreed, to, in the future, present Colette to me when introducing new behaviors rather than having my youngest just try to stroll past. This, we agreed, would avoid unnecessary conflict and save unwanted shock to my fatherly heart.
It can be hard to watch ones children grow up. It is even harder one is still growing up themselves. But, I guess, that we never really stop growing up.
When you stop to consider it, that concept is pretty fantastic.
Have a safe and enjoyable holiday.
I have two beautiful daughters. Maribel will soon be twenty. She just finished her sophomore year at one of our esteemed state universities. She is smart, articulate, athletic, outgoing, and quite popular. Colette is thirteen. She's not as friendly as Maribel, but she is very loyal. Once you are her friend, she will do anything in her power to assist or defend you. C0lette is also incredibly intelligent. She is a voracious reader and is also something of a computer geek. She's also in that awkward time where she is no longer a little child but still a good distance from adulthood. Angela is very good at handling teenage crises, but, for me, they are an endless source of frustration.
Allow me to illustrate that last statement. Shortly after Maribel came home from school this summer, she and Colette planned an outing to the local mega-mall. They said that they were looking for some summer clothes, but more likely they were planning to meet up with friends and look for handsome boys. In any case, I was sitting and leisurely reading the newspaper when Colette strolled by. She had applied a considerable amount of makeup to her young face, and rather poorly.
Being a typical father, I do not understand the female fasination with makeup. To me, it covers up ones natural beauty and can make one look sterile and artificial. So I prefer my girls to keep away from the stuff. Also, I must confess, I am not ready to lose my "little girl," so by having her avoid more mature practices I'm trying to hold on for a few more months.
I stopped Colette and informed her that she was to go back and wash the makeup off of her face. Naturally, she regaled me with the typical teenage whine, but I held firm and she finally returned to the powder room to wash. I returned to my newspaper.
Roughly 15 minutes later, Colette returned. Her face had clearly been cleaned, but I could not fail to notice that she was still wearing a little makeup, more stratigically placed this time. I proceeded to let her know that I was disappointed in her attempt to deceive me by still wearing a little makeup, and again insisted that she remove it.
"But, Daddy," she complained, "Mom put this on for me!"
Now. my recollection was that Angela and I had agreed that the girls were to postpone the wearing of makeup until perhaps their fifteenth year. I was quite confounded that my love would so blantantly diverge from this agreement. However, Colette was not known to tell tales, especially ones that were easy to disprove. So, with my youngest in tow, I went to find Angela.
"My dear," I began when I found her, "did you help Colette apply the bit of makeup that she appears to be wearing?"
"Yes," she responded. "Doesn't she look cute?"
"But darling," I replied, "I thought that we had agreed...."
"Oh, I think she's old enough," interrupted Angela. "Besides, she just needed a little instruction on how to properly apply a couple of things to enhance her beauty."
Before I could fashion a reply, Maribel came by to gush about how nice her sister looked with a little polish applied to her face. She and Angela fussed a little more, and then the girls hurried off to their shopping and socializing excursion.
When the girls left, I asked Angela why she had so blantantly disregarded our earlier agreement. She brushed off my concern. "It's okay," she said. "I felt she was old enough to wear makeup responsibly. And it made her look really good!"
At that point, I was summarily dismissed. Quietly fuming, I returned to my reading, but I could not concentrate. I just stared at the paper, wondering what other rules Angela felt could be broken without consulting with her husband and the girls' father. Would Colette soon be attired in slinky, skimpy little outfits more aprropriate for young adults out bar-hopping and looking for a handsome man with which bed? Would she be wearing mini-skirts and high-heels to school in the fall? I was quite concerned that my little girl was joining the sexual revolution a little earlier than I was comfortable with.
Thirty minutes or so later, I was still ruminating when Angela appeared. She was clad only in a long t-shirt and panties (why are women's underpants referred to as "panties"), and she was carrying one of my favorite wooden hairbrushes. Without saying a word, she took the paper from my hands, handed me the brush, and positioned herself, bottom up, over my lap. After over twenty years of marriage, my Angela does know my moods.
Still without talking, I pulled up her t-shirt and pulled down the panties. I proceeded to paddle her bare butt quite thoroughly, striking one cheek firmly several times and then repeating this on her other orb. She squirmed on my lap and tightly gripped my leg, but she otherwise didn't resist or complain. I worked over both cheeks considerably, then I delivered a handful of swift swats to the backs of her thighs. After a few more whacks to her now-bright red bottom, I concluded the paddling. I do admit, the activity did make me feel better.
Angela rose from my lap and proceed to rub some of the sting out of her pert posterior. She allowed me to inspect the damage. I must admit, I had done quite a fine job. Her backside was uniformly crimson and clearly tender.
At this point, Angela proceeded to explain that she felt the conflicts with Maribel over makeup were not productive, and that, being a woman, she could understand the pressure that a thirteen-year-old girl would feel to begin practicing more adult-like activities. She also pointed out that, if we were to compromise on small things like makeup, that perhaps she would not feel inclined to progress to more advanced subjects like tobacco, alcohol, controlled substances, or, god forbid, sexual activity. Being a typical father, the thought of my "little girl" doing the naked mambo with a horny teenage boy made me uncomfortable, to see the list. So I conceded the point. I did ask, and Angela agreed, to, in the future, present Colette to me when introducing new behaviors rather than having my youngest just try to stroll past. This, we agreed, would avoid unnecessary conflict and save unwanted shock to my fatherly heart.
It can be hard to watch ones children grow up. It is even harder one is still growing up themselves. But, I guess, that we never really stop growing up.
When you stop to consider it, that concept is pretty fantastic.
Have a safe and enjoyable holiday.
