I never got an enema with bulb. It was bad enough for the one insertion of the nozzle. I can't imagine multiple insertions followed by several squeezes of water into my bottom. But, mom used the over the knee procedure for my enema. Even though it was 40 years ago, I can remember them vividly. It's interesting that I do. I don't particular remember the enemas to be fun. Certainly not like I remember going to Disney Land, that was fun. Which I remember. However, something must have gotten triggered that I sub-conscicously enjoyed and it got embedded into my brain. But that's not what you are here for. You want a blow by blow recounting. Okay, I won't disappoint you. My mom made the enema quite an event for me. She would announce at the dinner table that I was to get one before bed. While I was watching TV, I would hear her filling the bag with water and the clinking of the metal clip against the porcelain sink. I knew my fate was sealed when I saw her carrying a kitchen chair into the bathroom with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Moments later, she would call me into the bathroom. I trudged down the hallway like a condemned man making my last walk. When I reached the bathroom, mom dressed in her robe, would shuttle me inside and close the door. Now I was trapped with the thing hanging above the bath tub. All bloated with the hose hanging down ending in the rectal nozzle. I always thought that the "thing" was laughing at me knowing what I was in for.
With the cigarette still dangling from her lips, she would undress me. I remember that I was always worried that an ash would fall on me as she undressed me to fully nude. Then she would pick me up like a rag doll, and as she sat down on the chair, in one practiced motion I was laid face down over her bare lap. With the cigarette still dangling from her lip, she would take a glob of vaseline and push it up into my bottom, moving her finger in an out. I remember the sensation and the feeling as when the smaller portion of her finger graduated to the fatter portion of her finger several times and literally "popped" out. Now came the part that I hated. The insertion of the rectal nozzle. Mom would grab be around the waist and hold me with her one hand as she worked the nozzle in with the other. The nozzle was a straight type, so the insertion was smooth and steady. I knew it was all the way in when I felt the plastic flange touch me. I felt mom reach for the clamp and with re-assuring words, she started the water flowing. Every time the first spurt of water was way too hot and caused me to jump. Mom patted my bottom gently and blew out a puff of smoke. It was her way of saying, okay the hard part is done now. Just relax and take you enema like a good boy. Of course the hard part is done for her, but I am the one to hold all of this water. Mom gently patting my bottom but held in the nozzle firmly. She drew imaginary shapes on my bare little bottom. Talking to me about school and how she had to endure enemas when she was a little girl. For some reason, I could never picture my mom as a little girl getting an enema from grandma. But grandma gave me a lot of enemas. But that is another story. Finally, mom stopped the water. I'm not sure if that was because she was tired of hearing me complain about being full or I actually took the whole bag. I remember that when I took the whole bag, I felt like a hero. Mom would proudly proclaim that I took the whole bag and how proud she was of me. She would even announce this accomplishment to the other mom's when they would come visit. "I gave Jon an enema last night and he took the whole bag." To where the other mother's would reply. " I can barely get half a bag into their kids." I would sit in the living room and bask in the praise afforded me. I even took this praise to school and would share with the other kids, who, were just as astonished as the parents that I was able to take a whole bag. But that didn't happen every time and not this time. By the time the enema was over, I was crying and very upset. Mom turned off the water but left the nozzle in me. She probably was afraid that I would poop out onto the floor. Now mom's timer was a cigarette. After she turned off the water, she would light up a cigarette and when she was finished smoking it and she stubbed it out into the ash tray, then and only then, was I allowed to poop. I can tell you that the toilet was never so welcome. The relief that I felt can only be measurable by people who remember the feeling of dumping all of that water. But it also exhausted me and after I was finished which took a while, I would barely be able to keep myself upright. Mom would tilt me forward and look into the toilet. Satisfied that there was no more poop in me, she would flush the toilet and wipe me. There way no way I could have done. After I got off the toilet it was bath time and then bed time. This routine was repeated every sunday until I reached 10 years old. Mom stopped giving me Sunday enemas and I only got an enema when I really needed one which wasn't that often. But even though I hated them, I miss them, which is probably why I still take them even though I am in my late 50's. Perhaps it's a way to hang onto a childhood memory or a way to keep from getting old by hanging onto my childhood.