Moms Wooden Spoon

I remember Moms wooden spoon
It seemed like I was always up close and personal with it
It's long thin handle and semi round head seemed to connect with my young buns on a regular basis, usually bringing me to tears and settling me down if just for the moment. Crying can take a lot of the restlessness out of a wild child. The spoon was quicker and more effective than Ridilin and not the least bit habit forming.

The spoon was fast in Moms hand, as fast as a mongoose striking a cobra.
It made that awful vooop sound as it traveled towards my obstinate little butt cheeks
and cracked like lightning as it seared my skin.

Oh I deserved it when it happened, not that I ever liked it mind you.
I was out of control, a wild child for sure that could really get on Moms' last good nerve. The spoon had a way or redirecting me into a more manageable state of body and mind. It had a way of making me as compliant as soft butter.

Moms wooden spoon also had an upside, a positive side to it..
I must admit that I was far fonder of that than the downside.
It was there for the licking after beating some chocolate cake batter or even better some peanut butter cookies or maybe some chocolate chips, mmmmmmmm!!!

The best thing I remember about the wooden spoon is when Mom finally hit me across my butt and it broke. The look on her face was priceless to me. Her eyes astonished at the sequence of events. Splintered in two pieces like one of Mickey Mantles' bats, the thin handle remaining in her hand and the round head launched somewhere across the room. I standing there, laughing out loud at the freedom that I felt, the sense of victory and release from it's dominance. No more of this I thought almost sneering at her.

Little did I know that she kept a spare in the drawer. Oh the angst I felt for an instant as she opened the drawer and pulled out the replacement.
I quickly gathered my senses and launched myself towards the kitchen door to no avail. I was quick but Mom was always quicker.

Voooop !!! I heard the incoming round as I reached for the hook on the old wooden screen door and then the sharp crack, the searing pain.
This must have been what it felt like to be with the British Expeditionary Force in Operation Dynamo at Dunkirk during the second World War I imagined.

I never used a wooden spoon on my children.
I had by then, grown infinitely attached to a spatula. Spatula comes from the Latin word for flat piece of wood. Mine had a plastic handle, was much more ascetically pleasing, durable and felt so ergonomically better in my hand. It was a nice fit. I loved it and used it often. It sang it's own song as I whipped it through the air, it was more like a viiip. The plastic was also heavier in my hand and denser that the thin handled wooden spoon of my mothers day.

Oh how that spatula could whip though. It was fast, it was mean, it was different than what I had been raised on. It also did a much better job of cleaning and scraping than any wooden spoon that I had ever tried. The kids also loved it because of it's superior scraping ability allowing them to really get all the goodness and pleasure that the mixing bowl contained.