In our home enemas were not a regular every Saturday night thing, but it was always Mom's first response to a sniffle or cough. Mom respected our privacy, probably more than my brother and I did ourselves. My fraternal twin brother got more enemas than I did, at least it seemed. Strangely, he did not get imprinted with the klismo thing, while I did. Mom usually had us in knee-chest on the bathroom floor on a towel. She almost always used an amber folding travel bag, which likely explains my appreciation of them.
Like so many of us, the recollection of my first childhood enema remains clear in my mind. We had just traveled from Arizona to New York to visit my grandparents. I remember Mom and Grandma both coming to me and explaining that they were going to help me wash out my insides. They did the whole thing with love and tenderness, and definitely did get the poopies out of me. They also, unintentionally I'm sure, sunk the klismo hook into me that day.
Mom let me "help" her assemble the amber latex enema bag. She used a new word, "syringe." She put me over her knees on the toilet, and grandma held the bag, and for the first time I experienced the thrill that has captivated each of us. Mom and Gram were gentle and loving, and the whole "enema" (another word I learned that day) experience was happy and positive for me. My brother was out with grandpa somewhere, and at first I couldn't wait to tell him about it. But then somehow I came to understand that what Gram and Mom and I had just done was something to be kept just among us girls. I felt so grown up and proud.
An hour or so later outside the window the Bicentennial parade was going by. It was July 4, 1976. I would turn four in October.
Hugs,
Diane