I was reading essays by esteemed humorist David Sedaris and realized that not only did I enjoy the humor Sedaris conveys through well-crafted word pictures, but I also like learning about him and his family. So it's time for another go at my relatives--this time my mom comes under the gun.
I think I was toilet-trained too early. There I've said it and now I'll tell you why I suspect that too much attention was directed at my defecation habits. If I had to guess I probably began my relationship with the Friendly Flusher somewhere between the developmental benchmarks of teething and self-feeding. I can't be more specific than that because I suspect the trauma I endured from being summarily plunked on the Friendly Flusher 20 or so times a day probably caused a deep amnesia of the details. All I can say for sure is that the toilet always seemed like a good place to make a quick deposit if you had some reading matter at your disposal, say a comic book or reader's digest.
For lengthier stays, I might amuse myself as well as distract myself by looking out the window while on the "throne." In our house you could do that because the 3 foot X 6-foot bathroom window was located about a foot from the toilet. You could swivel your head just a teensy bit while still on that white porcelain beauty and gaze across a 15-foot expanse into a second floor bedroom of the house next door. This happened to be the bedroom of Brucie Boy, who was about four years older than me and bullied and harassed me depending on his mood. Most of the time I would glance over and not see anything in his bedroom, but once in a while I spied him getting dressed or, if I were really lucky, getting undressed. He didn't seem to care about my nosiness and I concluded that this must be how exhibitionists get their start.
While I usually limited my time on the commode to mere minutes, it varied depending on the degree of constipation. Oh yes, from an early age, this plagued me, and my mother attributed it to my distaste for breakfast foods with their fiber-rich, fruit-filled cereals. So sometimes I had to spend more time than I would have liked on the toilet just to make sure my colon was scrupulously lacking in fecal matter. Since my OCD made it impossible for me to use strange toilets, i.e. toilets away from home such as in school and department stores, I always fretted about the potential of having the dreaded "accident." Nothing would have marked me more as a social failure than voiding while in, say, French class. While the French are rumored to carry lingering odors of different perfumes--this to cover up the stench of their unbathed bodies--I knew that an accident would be sudden death to any aspirations I might have for acceptance by the popular crowd.
Luckily I never had an accident if you don't count the time when I was in second grade when the sudden urge to empty my bowels got me quick rejection from certain nearby classmates and a sudden exit to the nurse's office where while hunting down a caring relative to take me home for an apparel change, the nurse contacted my maternal aunt. Even though this event happened decades ago, I still have a strong recollection of embarrassment and an indecent invasion of privacy.
Much of this was due to the strong personality of my aunt, who was in the habit of criticizing me. At a family dinner attended by cousins and adults alike, she remarked on my apparel by noting that "you sure are wearing a load of colors."That stab at my predilection for mixing but not necessarily matching clothes cut me deep. In those years lacking good taste in the fashion industry was tantamount to failing to qualify as a genuine female. Aunt Helga always had a rude way of making me feel uncomfortable. Either it was my grooming or my eating mannerisms, but something always bugged her about me. Of course it didn't help that a few months before the current defecation debacle, I had slept over my aunt's house and in an insecure moment, reached out for my blankie, which I called "Honey." Because it was too ragged to be washed, it smelled like limberger cheese gone bad. But I treasured this remnant of my babyhood so much that in the absence of my parents, I cried out in the night for Honey. I made such a ruckus that my aunt had to search out my parents so they could bring Honey to my home away from home. I was a pain in the ass child, and perhaps Mom got back at me subconsciously by ramping up my toilet training.
As fate would have it, Aunt Helga was the relative delegated with appreciating me at my very worst, then taking me home, stripping me of my clothing and redressing me. Irony doesn't fully convey the monstrous indignity of this incident. Of course in a way it was my own fault. My bathroom habits were abysmal; not only was I truly constipated, but stress had a way of determining the comings and goings of my colon. Naturally my parents were credited with a goodly portion of the blame. While my mother used to brag to her friends that I was toilet trained at the age of 10 months, she never divulged her secret to achieving that goal.To be fair it was probably fueled by my father's pressure that convinced mom that the sooner I was trained, the better for the entire family. Dad had his own brand of OCD, which consisted of countless hand washings, door checks, and hot water heater lookee lous (more on this to come). I doubt if dirty diapers were his thing since he always smoked while using the bathroom--this to disguise the aroma of poop. Anyone who lights up while shitting is trying to deceive the world bigtime (including said pooper) that this bodily necessity of excretion was foreign to his behavior profile. After all, what's one step better than being toilet trained? Being devoid of poop entirely. And a Winston could make it happen, at least in our house.
But back to mom: I held her responsible for the second grade doo-doo debacle because she wasn't available by phone when the school nurse called. I never quite discovered where she was in my time of greatest need, but it probably had something to do with my father if I had to guess. A manipulative and demanding man who did not countenance fools lightly, Mom might have been suckered into the pool of denial situated at my house. One dunk in it and the pain of parenting disappeared forever. It was a favorite sport for our family. We swam in denial until we were too fatigued to continue. Of course it was only until later that I recognized this as the Number One hallmark of the Dysfunctional Family.
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