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ena-me, ena-ma

ena-me, ena-ma

On Aussie Mothers’ Day ~ for my anonymous, compassionate, and thereafter regular, daughter. [For ‘the record’ (whatever that is), she was three.]

You, looking at me with such horror. Me, trying my best to seem in control. Your Dad drops his jaw in bewilderment.  I return your look with equal mortification.

Yes, I did have to stick that harsh little torpedo up your butt.

I took a breath and did what a loving mother has to – when the other mother (nature) doesn’t oblige. One day you will understand. For now, we simply gape at each other, as if waiting for an explosion or . . . waiting to wake up from this rude ablution.

“Why? Did? You? Do? That? Get it out!”

Tears, unrelenting pain, you dance from foot to foot, just not accepting this as your current reality.

“Will it be in me all night?”  You try and lay down but it will not be forgotten. You run, screaming. Terrified.

Calmly, I watch myself use my words, explaining that in ten to fifteen minutes, you will sit on the potty, and this time, it won’t be stuck, but running.

Making good choices, I keep my voice low, though you are accusing me of first degree torture. I see myself pouring deliriously out of your aching bowel, willing this to end. And then, you pat my arm, the tension changed on your face, as the tears run freely down mine.


  1. Gabrielle Traynor |

    Oh Robyn! I was with you and she-who-shall-not-be-named every reticent inch of the way reading this b(l)og. Experiencing similar trans-Pacific. Glad you stopped where you did in your account but sharing the relief. Sincerely, Gabrielle xx

  2. Gabrielle Traynor |

    Oh and ps! Happy Mothers’ Day!

  3. Oh the torture of both motherhood and reluctant bowels

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