I assume that before the age of 12, I had a couple of annual exams at the pediatrician or at least a kindergarten exam so I could attend grade school. Since I don’t remember the exam per se, I assume it was simply cursory in nature and uneventful in my mind: the doc listened to my heart, listened to my lungs, pressed a little on my tummy, said, “Good boy. Now, stop yelling in my stethoscope, you little brat”, charged for a comprehensive visit for the difficult patient, and sent me off to learn my ABCs.
Had the doctor spread my cheeks and inserted his finger into my rectum, I’m quite certain I would have remembered that. Now, that I think about it 62 years later, maybe I did have an exam when I was five and maybe the doctor shoved his finger up my caboose because it was only a year later that I played doctors with a neighbor boy and what did I say and do to the boy? “You need a shot in your bottom, so turn around, pull your pants down, and bend over.” (Yes, I was a bossy doctor, well, technically, just a pre-med student, but bossy, nonetheless). Then, with alacrity, I shoved my soaped-up index finger into his bum hole to the hilt, and I wiggled it around in there for good measure until I was sure all the medicine got in. Even as a pre-med student at the tender age six, I did not want to waste a drop of medicine… or maybe I was just adding to my enjoyment of having my finger in my friend’s rectum. Yeah, scratch the efficiency B.S.—I’m going with the latter. And, of course, I wanted to feel what it was like to have another person’s small, but capable finger in my own rectum, so I told him now that he was trained, he needed to give me a shot, too. He agreed and we changed positions.
I wish that 61 years ago, the day after I played doctors with that kid down the street, I had recalled that my pediatrician maybe gave me a digital rectal exam a year earlier because I could have blamed him for doing to me what I then did to the kid and the kid did to me, and then, with that accusation, I might have talked my way out of the combination enema-and-paddling punishment that my mom presided over the day after my friend and I exchanged digital rectal exams, (which, of course, we innocently referred to as “shots” because we were only in our first day at pre-med school).
(Phew. That was a one very long run-on sentence, but I believe it is grammatically correct. I definitely should have split it into two sentences for easier readability, but then I thought it was kinda fun to just keep it running on as a big, long one, (no sexual inuendo there. Okay, so maybe a little sexual inuendo. Actually, a big one. And feel free to diagram the big, long sentence. You get seven meaningless bonus points for doing so).
In another way, I’m glad I didn’t talk my out of at least the enema portion of the punishment, but the enema and the paddling were kind of a package deal, as my mom wanted to teach me a thing or two about putting things up my friend’s bottom, or anybody’s bottom, for that matter, including my own, but her lesson, at least on the enema part of the punishment, backfired for her, but was excellent for me.
To read the details about my punishment enema and paddling for practicing medicine without a license at the age of five—sorry, …for sticking my finger in my friends bottom without a license and for having him return the favor, click this link: https://en.zity.biz/member/contributions-posts
Now, on to some for-sure pediatrician medical exams, but alas, no spreading of the cheeks, parting of the waters, or any other prayed-for miracles.
When I was 11, I graduated from Cubs Scouts and joined the Boy Scouts. Then, every summer, starting at the ripe old age of 12, I got to attend the week-long scout camp, which necessitated getting an annual exam with the pediatrician who listened to my heart, listened to my lungs, pressed a little on my tummy, attached his right hand to my tiny pelvic region while simultaneously giving the customary turn-your-head-and-cough instruction (standard hernia check), charged for an intermediate visit, and sent me off to scout camp to learn how to carelessly and dangerously play with matches, fires, pocket knives, and hatchets, and to enjoy many dangerous, near-death experiences, often involving dizzying heights, terrifying depths of water, copious amounts of mostly-uncontrolled flames, and/or other imminent dangers that you do share with you mother until the statute of limitations has run out. What happens at scout camp, stays at scout camp, else your mom would never let you go to another scout. Oh, but you can disclose any and everything to your dad because he, too, was once a boy. At least most dads were.
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And please, if you made it to the end of this ridiculously-long posting, please let me know if my silliness is too much for a serious place like Zity. You will receive 12.5 bonus points that mean absolutely nothing and cannot be redeemed anywhere, but I’m going with the old adage: It’s the thought that counts.