Growing up, it was a tradition in my family that with every birthday that came to pass, the birthday boy or girl would receive not only cake and presents, but also a round of ritualistic birthday spankings. Of course, several years back we had to put this custom to rest because too many family members were getting hurt.

It was impossible to enjoy ones birthday with the constant threat of inevitability lurking around every corner. Just when you thought everyone had forgotten about the spankings this year, you were tackled by a cousin and sat on by an uncle while your father subdued your hands, and grandma pinned your arms to the floor. There’s nothing quite like the feel of getting jumped by your own family. In retrospect, I’m surprised they never stole my wallet in the process. I’ve never seen a group of people go from celebrators to lynch mob so quickly in my life. Once you were down and you had stopped clawing, biting, and screaming in a feeble attempt to escape, everyone would line up and the fun would commence, each member of the family giving you a number of spankings equal to your age. Even my Great Grandmother who was pushing ninety-five and hadn’t walked in seven years would get up out of her wheelchair to join the festivities. It was a weird bonding experience that brought us closer as a family. So what if you couldn’t sit down for the next week and half, as long as everyone had a good time.

As the years passed we saw lots of clever attempts to either diminish the pain of the spankings or avoid them altogether. I remember one year in particular where my sister thought it smart to stuff her pants full of toilet paper so that when she was eventually thrown to the floor and lovingly assaulted by twelve of her kin, maybe it wouldn’t cause the bruises and welts normally acquired during the process. I’ll tell you, there’s something about a girl on a kitchen floor sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs while family members rip bath tissue out of her pants with maniacal looks on their faces that really burns itself into your memory. Her birthday gifts that year included a pair of shoes, a gift card to her favorite store, and ultimate humiliation.

Another year, my aunt decided that she’d had enough of the tradition. She locked herself in a bedroom and barricaded the door. My father and my uncle spent a lot of time and energy breaking into the room only to find that she had escaped outside through a window. It was only a matter of time until she was dragged inside, kicking and screaming, thrown to the kitchen floor and the cycle repeated.

If memory serves, the final nail in the birthday spanking coffin came one year on my dad’s birthday. As we ceremoniously attempted to clobber him to the floor he put up quite a fight that we weren’t prepared for. Failing to subdue him completely, my uncle jumped on his back in an attempt to take him down so the paddle party could begin. In a single heartbeat my father somehow channeled the spirit of Bruce Lee and flipped my uncle over his shoulder and sent him sprawling face first into a nearby television, his nose immediately became a geyser of blood. For the first time in as long as I can remember, we all stopped. Right then we were completely aware of just how real the situation had become.

Slightly ashamed of ourselves and also slightly disappointed about breaking the tradition we decided to adopt a replacement activity for all future birthdays. It was something about putting candles on a cake, lighting them on fire, and then blowing them out. Overall we found it weird and not nearly as much fun. I guess that’s how normal families do it.

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