Page 31 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 15

Enemas: A Love Story

My mother’s holistic approach to well-being included giv-
ing her children monthly enemas. She checked our bowel
movements every day to make sure they were of the correct
consistency and, if not, she filled up the enema bag. Don’t
think of sadistic scenes from Sybil, please. It wasn’t like that.
In my mother’s dotty weirdness, she made it a sort of a fun-
filled adventure each time.
We were not a musical family but we did know our
patriotic theme songs. While the warm soapy water filled
up my gastrointestinal system for the colonic cleansing, we
sang My Country ‘Tis of Thee, from beginning to end, and
then we counted backwards from fifty to zero. My mother
never helped me with my homework: this was her idea of
pedagogy.
I always liked the “hold it, hold it” challenge. In my
childhood, no one expected much of me, except to smile
and be friendly and remember names. But learning to sing
patriotic songs, count backwards, and hold on to the enema
water until I felt like bursting has served me well in life: I am
the queen of multitasking.
Twenty-five years later, when I was about to give birth to
my first-born, I recall desperately trying to push my son out
during a three-hour, second stage of labor. The letting go and
holding on held a paradoxical pull.
Letting go was never easy for me.