Writing the wrong word endless times

My mother has always been one of those persons who tries too hard to be good at something. It never mattered what was the thing, because from the day she was born, she's been suffering from the "middle-child-syndrome" (it is believed that those children receive less attention than their siblings).
After getting married with a man who was not approved by her family, she found the perfect way of receiving recognition for her achievements... when she became a mother.
She was absolutedly determined to have the best-educated, cleanest and perfect-at-school children, and of course she devoted herself to that job.
She started penalizing us (my brothers and me) if we had our clothes dirty, she didn't allow us to eat sweets when we were with our "fancy clothes", and if we happened to fall when running, she was more concerned with the fabric of our pants not being torn, than with the injury we had in our knees.
Of course, she was a really proud mother when people mentioned how nice children we were, but we never paid attention to that.
When we started school, things got worse.
My older brother was a hyperactive monster at home but a saint at school. I was a rebel four-eyed-princess with pony tails on both sides of my head and my younger brother was a beautiful baby that I didn't like, just because he had the bad idea of "arriving" two days before my birthday (I asked my mother to send him back to the place where he came from).
The thing is that my mother lost her temper, quite easily, every day when my older brother and me came back from school. Her punishment was exhausting but fruitful. Every word or phrase that we wrote with a spelling mistake or was hardly understood (for bad handwriting) we had to write it endless times. Depending on my mother's mood, sometimes we had to repeat the word up to the middle of the page. Although, when the mistake was an error, we knew that the repetition became much longer (on both sides of the page).
Now, twenty-two years later, I can see myself sitting with my legs hanging from the chair, and drawing imaginary circles on the air, crying my eyes out while writing the repetitions. By my side, my brother was doing the same as me... but he was also trying (at any cost) to console my sad childish soul.
In any case, I have to accept that even when the punishment was tiring, my brother and me have always had an understandable and neat handwriting, with almost no mistakes, which is not the case of my younger brother, who (being 23 years old) still writes as a six-year-old-child, and has to ask many times before writing a word to avoid making mistakes.
The only problem is that my mother (now grandmother) still sustains the hope of saying one day that her children are perfect, longing to experience the satisfaction and receive recognitions for a well-done job.