Do you remember the drill

I remember that while staying with my aunt during a summer, if she said "can you come to the bathroom?", meant for me to go to my room, take off my shorts and underpants and then go to the bathroom. It was time for an enema and she was waiting with the bulb syringe filled with Ivory soapsuds and the nozzle which was lubricated with vaseline. There was a towel across the hamper waiting for me to climb across. I would be expected to urinate (PP} until my bladder was empty and get across the hamper. I spent a lot of time looking at those octagon tiles in the bathroom while getting an enema. She always said "I'm going to give you an enema" which seems to indicate a single one which in fact was always at least three. She would say that I had seemed to be cranky today and out of sorts and this would help to fix me up. I also knew on Friday nights that right after my bath it was another trip over the hamper as a towel was placed there while I was getting dried off. She of course was busy getting a sinkful of warm Ivory soap and the syringe ready to go for me.

My Mother would always said come to bathroom, I need to give you an enema. I was allowed to undress there and climb across her lap for the treatment.

Our drill was similar, except instead of a hamper I had to lay across the toilet. Mom would call to me and as I entered the bathroom I could see the toilet cover was down and covered with a towel. I knew crying and complaining were useless when mom decided I was getting an enema. First, all my clothes had to be removed, even socks. Then it was lay over the toilet, head down and toes off the floor. I also remember the tile floor! Mom sat on a low stool next to the toilet would spray a bulbful up my fanny, all the while telling me to hold it real tight and how good I was going to feel after a good enema. The usual routine became two bulbfuls, expel, get up so she could inspect the results, then over the toilet again for two more. Looking back those were some great bulb sessions that got me started on a lifetime of enjoyable enema activities.

Never had a specific "Drill" Every situation was a little different. I was also at a different level of maturity by the time of the next enema. By the time I was 10, I certainly knew the procedure, and the expectations, so I guess you could call that a "drill."

My Mother would tell me she was going to give me an enema and to go and get ready. I would go in my room and strip naked and wait for her to call. It would be thrilling to hear her getting the enema ready.

Mom would have me strip naket in the bathroom and lay on the floor on my back legs spread and she would use a 2 quart bag with the douche nozzzle, I would get at least two bags in these sessions

There is a drill and with it comes a script that moms and kids all know by heart. It would go something like this:

Mom: Chris, I think you need to have an enema

Me: No, I don't need one

Mom: Yes, I think I'll make you a nice enema

Me: But I don't want one

Mom: I don't care what you want. You're going to get a good cleaning out

Me: OK, but don't make me too much

Mom: Don't worry, I won't

Me: Oh, do I have to?

Mom: Yes, you do. Now get undressed, put on your robe and get in here

Me: Oh, OK

Mom: Chris I'm waiting

Me: I'm doing it as fast as I can

Mom: Young lady you are going to get an enema if I have to wait for you all night

@ Emom.....Sounds very familiar and I would just like to add one thing...." please mom , not too much soap"

I remember Mom saying this after she had prepared an enema for me....One that I'd been begging for, for weeks. ( Mom led me into the bathroom and I left. I hid. ) Well, Mom called out... "Mike, if you want this enema, you had better come now. If not, I am going to take it down and if I do, I DO NOT want to hear about it again! Understand ME?" This was one of my Mom's favorite speeches.

Once I proved that I wouldn't make a mess during my enemas they moved from the tub to the bathroom floor. I would be called to the bathroom by my mom. When I arrived I knew why she had called. She was making the final preparations for an enema. I'd go to my room and take off all my clothes before crossing the hallway naked and enter the bathroom. Mom would be sitting on the side of the tub holding the greased enema nozzle, the bulging bag hanging from the shower curtain rod. A towel was spread out on the floor at her feet. I knew to get on the towel on my hands and knees. Mom would hold the nozzle to my anus and wait. She encouraged me to rock back as she held the nozzle stationary as I would essentially impale myself on the nozzle. Holding the nozzle in place as I rocked forward again she'd release the clamp and the flow began immediately. Once the bag had lost it's initial bulge mom would tell me to put my head and shoulders down on the floor. There I would stay until I announced couldn't hold any more. Mom would click the clamp closed and check the state of the bag. If the bag hadn't emptied enough of its contents, mom would say "You can take some more" and the clamp would be reopened. Once I had taken enough (in her estimation) the clamp would be closed again. Then the waiting would begin. Mom would remove the nozzle and I was allowed to return to my hands and knees. She'd then slide her hand under my gut and assess its swollen condition. After a few minutes of pressing and kneading my belly I was told I could get on the toilet and release. As my enema sprayed into the toilet in waves, I would stare at the enema bag, trying to figure out if I could empty it on the next round. At our house, the enema wasn't done until the bag was emptied. It was the best feeling when I was expelling into the toilet while looking at the bag squished flat.

"The Drill" was usually the same. My mother would call me into the bathroom where she would have a bowl of Ivory soapsuds and the bulb syringe ready and waiting for me. She would tell me to undress and lie down on a towel on the floor. As I undressed I would plead with her not to do this, that I didn't want an enema. She would tell me she was sorry, but since I hadn't went to the bathroom for few days she was going to have to use the syringe on me to make me go. My begging and pleading did no good, her mind was made up. It was inevitable that I would find myself on the towel, her using the syringe on me to fill my bowels with the hot soapy solution. I would beg her to stop after each syringefull, saying that it hurt and that I couldn't take any more, but she would refill the syringe and once again apply it to my unwilling ass. Only when she was satisfied that I had taken enough to make my bowels move would she finally stop. Then I was forced to hold it for at least five minutes "to give the enema time to work on me", as she put it, all the while telling me that if I didn't hold it long enough that it wouldn't clean me out properly and then we would have to start all over again. When I was finally allowed to expel and she was satisfied that I was thoroughly cleaned out it was back on the towel for another syringing of clear water to rinse me out. Only then was the ordeal over......until next time.

Because I was quite young when my mother gave me enemas, I don't recall what she said, but the scenario was always the same. Whenever I had been ill for more than a couple days or so, my mother would always come into my bedroom in the evening, after I had gone to bed, and take me to the bathroom. If I had PJ's on, she would take my PJ bottoms off, and have me lie on a towel on the bathroom floor, where she would give me a nice slow warm Ivory soap suds enema from the old red bag, and black nozzle, that was hung from the bathroom door handle. If it hurt at all, I would tell her, and she would stop the flow for a couple minutes, and then continue. As I remember , I would usually receive about 2 to 3 enemas before I was done, and could go back to bed. Like many here, enemas were the "cure all" in our household back then, for whatever ailed us.

Emom, that does sound pretty familiar, but I would add more drill after the pipe had been inserted:

"Take it out, it hurts," to which I would be told to just relax and take some deep breaths; the I'd say "that's enough!" and I would be told that I needed enough to work; and then I would plead "please stop" and the answer was "just a little bit more"; and finally "I have to go now real bad" and I' would be told that I would have to wait another minute or so in order for it to work. Yes, there was script and we all knew how it would go.

While I was usually cooperative, there were times when I would have my moments. That time that I was to be given an enema and held my butt muscles tight to prevent insertion got me a smack on the bottom for my efforts. The time that I was being given an enema from the bulb and slipped off mom's lap and quickly expelled on the toilet got me a second enema from a full bag.

As I recall my Mother would call me into the bathroom and when I entered everthing was ready and she would be sitting on the closed toilet, I would remove my pants and underwear and lay over her lap and the enema would begin once my rectum was coated with vaseline.

At a somewhat young age I was being stubborn as usual. I had not wanted to get the enema, but wound up with one. Thinking that mom's objective in giving it to me was to make me have a BM I decided to sit on the toilet and not let it down thinking that this might deprive her of the satisfaction. All I can say is that there is only so long a young boy can hold back a quart or so of warm soapy enema. Knowing what I do now, I probably allowed it to work even better by holding it.

The drill, such as it was, was mainly the sequence when sick. Enemas weren't announced, they happened. No discussion or warning or announcement. Simply a, "Let's go."

My temperature was taken rectally. The procedure was turn onto my stomach and lower my underpants to my knees when mom showed up holding the thermometer and the Vaseline. If it was also time for an enema, she would remove my underpants after inserting the thermometer.

She used the elapsed time for the mercury to register to prepare the enema. I'd hear the water running in the bathtub and the other unmistakable sounds associated with an enema being prepared. That completed mom returned to my bed, removed the thermometer, read it, then told me to follow her to the bathroom.

I meekly complied and was always started to see the filled enema bag hanging from the towel bar above the tub. Mom sat of the edge of the tub, put a towel in her lap and bent me over her knees for the enema. The greased rectal nozzle, black bat-shaped bakelite, would be inserted without more than a parting of my exposed butt cheeks.

Her right elbow held me in place while she kept the nozzle fully inserted with two fingers. Her left hand opened the steel clamp to begin the ordeal of taking the hot soapy liquid. Crying and squirming did little to alter the process.

Mom didn't require a retention time, I guess she figured the enema volume was sufficient to empty my colon. She was a good judge of capacity, but I have no idea how much I got until around age eleven when I could take a full bag.

The drill, as you call it, was quite simple in our household. Mom simply said, calling my sister or me by name, "get undressed and come into the bathroom." Mom was usually quite discrete in administering ... never doing it when dad was home ... this usually meant Saturday mornings (dad worked on Saturdays) or Sunday afternoon (he usually went golfing during he summer or bowling in the winter. No brothers in our family so it was just us girls. After getting undressed and going to the bathroom where mom was waiting with either a bulb syringe when we were younger or a two-quart bag as we got into double digit age. The routine was simple ... we could either take some ort of standing positions or knee on the floor over the edge of the bathtub, mom would lube and insert the syringe and administer. I preferred to stand, hands either on knees or edge of the bathtub, while my sister like to lay across mom's lap or across the vanity chair. I loved the feeling of the warm soapy water entering, held it as long as I could (Mom said when we starting dancing from foot to foot it was time to expel), then enjoyed the gushing. We usually got a soapy enema and two or three rinse enemas ... alternating so the whole process took about two hours ... then we would shower or bathe, depending on how we felt ... had the option of staying nude after we dried off or dressing in fresh clothes and were free to do anything we wanted. We usually opted for staying nude ... something I still love to do when I'm home.

Usually started with mom I have a stomach ache. She would tell you to go up to your room and take off your pants. As I was lying there waiting I sometimes would get excited and have to try to hide this from her. She would enter carrying the red bag and lay it beside me on the bed. She would then spread my cheeks and administer a glob of lubricant taking her time to work it into my butt. Then she would lube the nozzle and slide it into me. There was a "click" and the sensation of water flowing into me. Mom would roll the bag to make sure I got it all. Afterwards I had to lay there with the tube in me until she said I should to the bathroom. She would follow me into the bathroom with the tube hanging out of my butt and then I turned around and she would reach between my legs and remove the nozzle. Me erection in plain view. After expelling we would go back into the bedroom where a finger well lubed would probe me to see if I needed a second enema. I usually got 2-3 before she was satisfied.

This string left me to thinking about how sometime the drill would need a couple of days to build. Specifically, if I had not had a BM for two days somehow mom would know that and I would be greeted by a glass of prune juice and a bowl of All Bran at breakfast. That stuff would often work and that would be the end of the story. Occasionally, however, it would not work and if we got to the end of a third day without a BM it was an enema before bed. Now at that point the rest of the script comes into play, but despite who said what I did wind up getting probably a quart or so of warm soapy water.

Mom always sat on a very plushly covered low stool that put right next to the toilet, there was never anything to impare my access to it as I would be over her lap during the enema and could just plop over to the toilet to expell .

I knew when I was sick that I was going to get an enema. Our family doctor always told Mom to give me one. He made house calls up to age 12. The drill actually started with my lying on my stomach as he took my temp rectally. It took 3 minutes or more in those days! He would ask my mom a variety of questions, one of which was always “has he moved his bowels.?” The answer was “no!" His response was, “give him an enema today.” After he examined me, he would usually give me an injection in one of my buttocks of penicillin. As he was getting is doctor's bag ready to leave, he would give her instructions such as to continue to take my temp rectally during the day to see if the fever would go done. He would also remind her about the enema.

A little while after his leaving, Mom would begin to prepare the enema bag. I always got the enema on my left side (sims position) on my bed which was covered with a rubberized sheet and a big towel. The enema bag was the 1950's bag: red bag, red hose, black nozzle. Mom's enema bag was closed top.

The first posting was the “drill” when I was sick. There were times that I was constipated. If my mother did not sense that I was having a bowel movement when I was in the bathroom, she would ask me if I had gone that day. If the answer was, “no,” she became very vigilant. On Day 2 she would ask me, if I went. If I did not, she would say, “ we will see how this goes today.” When I got home from school, she would ask me if I went at school. I never did. She would then say that if I did not go after dinner, then she would say that I would need an enema before bedtime. What made bedtime enemas different from when I was sick, was that my dad was home. Dad would hold the red bag as Mom was the nozzle and clamp person.

OH the old saw about a drill!

I have so many memories of enemas from my mother, and my grandmother when I'd stay with her. One is whether I was home from school ill, or seeming off or unwell, or she suspected I was constipated there would always be a talk between us on how I was feeling and her wondering if she should give me an enema. There were times when she'd say, "I think I need to give you an enema, Bobby," or even, “Bobby”, I need to give you an enema." Most often though she'd say, "I think I need to give you an enema, Bobby, what do you think?" or, "Bobby, I need to give you an enema ... don't I?"

Sometimes the conversation would start with her saying, "Would you feel better if I gave you an enema?" or, "Perhaps it's time you had an enema, what do you think?" Another conversation starter might be, "How about we go to the bathroom and I'll give you a good enema? Would you like that? Would that help?" Another, "Shall I go and fix an enema for you? I think an enema would make you feel better."

I'd sometimes agree, "I guess so," and sometimes I'd say, "I don't want an enema," and she'd say, "I know, Bobby, I know you don't want an enema, but I think you need one, don't you?"

If I agreed to an enema I might say, "I guess a little one would be okay," and she'd say, "Bobby, you know if mommy is going to give you an enema it needs to be a good one, don't you? Let's do a good one so I don't have to give you another one because the first wasn't good enough. Okay?"

My grandmother used the same approach, much the same words, totally the same practical consultative, 'we need to talk about this' approach.

Thought I'd share this with the group and see if others had mom's like mine?

Sometimes reading reply’s by others, reminds me of similar events in my past. My mom was more direct, it was seldom optional. Loss of appetite, behavior indicators, feeling forehead, asking how I was feeling lead into “When was your last BM?”. “Does your belly hurt?“. She had good communications with me. Then she would call the doctor or make a command decision, “I think I had better give you a good enema”. That was it. Of course the doctor was never on my side. It was the times. I understand now. Then the ritual was always the same. I won’t repeat the routine after, most of you know what came next. If you don’t, contact me for the spicy details. Thx.

When I was younger my mom would just tell me it was time for an enema, I was expected to follow her into the bathroom right then. As I got older she made it like it was something between us girls. She would wait until my brother and father were out of the house and then suggest we do an enema now that we were alone and we would go to the bathroom.

There were a few times when I wasn't feeling well and she would bring a Fleet enema into my bedroom, close the door and I would lie on the bed to take it. I didn't get a lot them, it was almost always bulb or bag enemas in the bathroom.

Sometimes reading reply’s by others, reminds me of similar events in my past. My mom was more direct, it was seldom optional. Loss of appetite, behavior indicators, feeling forehead, asking how I was feeling lead into “When was your last BM?”. “Does your belly hurt?“. Then she would make a command decision, “I think I had better give you a good enema”. That was it. Of course the doctor was never on my side. It was the times. I understand now. Then the ritual was always the same.

My mother was the same. Poor appetite, stomach ache, acting cranky or irritable, eating a lot of candy, nuts or popcorn ("junk food"), or illness that kept me home from school always resulted in an Ivory soapsuds enema to clean me out, no questioning why. The doctor even suggested daily enemas during illness to keep my bowels cleaned out.

Anything that kept either my brother or me home from school was going to be enough reason for getting a mid morning enema. We both knew it too and whether mom intended it that way or not was a good enough reason to never wanting to fake being ill.

Anything that kept either my brother or me home from school was going to be enough reason for getting a mid morning enema. We both knew it too and whether mom intended it that way or not was a good enough reason to never wanting to fake being ill.

Exactly the same. I won all kinds of attendance awards!

The thing I keep hearing here is, “I don't care what YOU want!” To me, THAT'S where the line into abuse is crossed.

It was always explained to me WHY Dad( my only parent) believed it was necessary to “induce” a bowel movement. and what the realistic options were. I also went in knowing that as much as I HATED suppositories, he hated even more getting one into me!!

At least I was always offered an alternative of one or more oral laxatives, I was given the final choice on the nozzle, and from age 7 I was doing my own insertions,