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OK, so in a recent même I alluded to a second, self-inflicted circumcision. That was a total teaser on my part. Probably like most people I don't remember much detail from ages 0-4; the odd specific memory, a general sense of things being OK, but not many crystal clear memories.
Like this one.
Some of the Oirish mothers we knew growing up were toilet-training Nazis. Was it because they had outhouses in the Ould Sod, and appreciated this marvelous innovation? Or was just plain old fashioned Catlick discipline? I do remember one Mum proudly having her twin songs toilet trained by 18 months: doubtless today they're junkies or Republicans. Ma wasn't nearly that bad, but certainly I don't recall not being able to use the loo.
But like a lot of little boys, the standing and peeing thing was often difficult--it's too high! It's too high! So I was a sitter. But being a wee kid meant balancing on the front of the seat, lest I fall into the bowl proper. Really it likely qualified for Cirque du Soleil. Unfortunately, the dismount was often more difficult than the mount. I was on the bowl, taking a wee. Da had put a new toilet seat on a few days earlier. Like most toilet seats it was hard plastic, from a mould. But what no one had noticed is that the inside rim of the seat hadn't been sanded down--in fact, it was quite sharp.
I don't remember if I was trying to pull my pants up, or get off the seat, or just being clutzy goofy baby![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jawnbc, but I lost my balance and started to tumble forward . . . and my dick caught the unsanded inner edge. Rather quickly I found myself on the bathroom floor, pants around my ankles, and bleeding.
I did what most kids do in such circumstances: I howled.
Ma came running (Da was at work). Now Ma was probably born to be a nurse--nothing, abosolutely nothing, freaks her out in an emergency. So she assessed the damage, wrapped my poor little sausage (it was still connected, but badly cut) in a wad of tissues, pulled up my undies, picked me up and ran across to the neighbour's.
The Frakenfields were the only family on our street without school age kids. Mr. F was in fact retired. I can only imagine what he thought when he answered Ma's frantic knocking: standing in front of him was the lady across the street with one of her kids in her arms, whose white underwear was turning crimson. I don't recall it, but he apparently drove us to our pediatrician, Dr. Stern.
Dr. Stern acted liked he had seen this sort of thing before. He took me in, gave me a shot of novocaine in the willy, and stitched me up. Several stiches, but not dozens. I don't remember it hurting at all, though it probably did.
And, for the record, it works just fine. No problems.
Like this one.
Some of the Oirish mothers we knew growing up were toilet-training Nazis. Was it because they had outhouses in the Ould Sod, and appreciated this marvelous innovation? Or was just plain old fashioned Catlick discipline? I do remember one Mum proudly having her twin songs toilet trained by 18 months: doubtless today they're junkies or Republicans. Ma wasn't nearly that bad, but certainly I don't recall not being able to use the loo.
But like a lot of little boys, the standing and peeing thing was often difficult--it's too high! It's too high! So I was a sitter. But being a wee kid meant balancing on the front of the seat, lest I fall into the bowl proper. Really it likely qualified for Cirque du Soleil. Unfortunately, the dismount was often more difficult than the mount. I was on the bowl, taking a wee. Da had put a new toilet seat on a few days earlier. Like most toilet seats it was hard plastic, from a mould. But what no one had noticed is that the inside rim of the seat hadn't been sanded down--in fact, it was quite sharp.
I don't remember if I was trying to pull my pants up, or get off the seat, or just being clutzy goofy baby
jawnbc, but I lost my balance and started to tumble forward . . . and my dick caught the unsanded inner edge. Rather quickly I found myself on the bathroom floor, pants around my ankles, and bleeding.I did what most kids do in such circumstances: I howled.
Ma came running (Da was at work). Now Ma was probably born to be a nurse--nothing, abosolutely nothing, freaks her out in an emergency. So she assessed the damage, wrapped my poor little sausage (it was still connected, but badly cut) in a wad of tissues, pulled up my undies, picked me up and ran across to the neighbour's.
The Frakenfields were the only family on our street without school age kids. Mr. F was in fact retired. I can only imagine what he thought when he answered Ma's frantic knocking: standing in front of him was the lady across the street with one of her kids in her arms, whose white underwear was turning crimson. I don't recall it, but he apparently drove us to our pediatrician, Dr. Stern.
Dr. Stern acted liked he had seen this sort of thing before. He took me in, gave me a shot of novocaine in the willy, and stitched me up. Several stiches, but not dozens. I don't remember it hurting at all, though it probably did.
And, for the record, it works just fine. No problems.
