No, my folks were what we'd call now "full service", lol. The implements of justice in ascending order were a sharp word, a slap on the bottom or two, formal paddling with the flat of the polystyrene Fuller Brush shower brush (which we called the "paddy whack" -- think that's an old family Irishism), and the Wrath of God, my dad's heavy, enormous, 11-foot-long, 48-pound black leather belt.
The hissssss of that belt sliding out of its loops was more alarming than all the red lights and klaxons ever made. It was the sound of the rushing wind, announcing the coming of the hosts of divine retribution. It was awe-inspiring.
It also announced "bed no dinner" and various other, purely minor consequences that were dwarfed by the enormity of what was about to happen, lol.
Although I distinctly remember my mother once or twice pretending either ignorance or a special, one-time abatement of the "no dinner" sentence, and quietly bringing me a small plate with something edible on it after a dinner, to soften the mightier interdicts of justice. With a lecture, of course.
After a while, one could begin to see the crowd appeal of mothers.
No supper go to bed... boy do I remember that. I also if I were really awful be prohibited from watching Davie Crockett(sp).
I would really scream and cry about that. To add insult to injury my brother and sister would get to watch it and they would keep the sound just loud enough that I could only hear mumbling but not follow the dialog.