Bits of bits

For Baby S born 17 November 2008.

You can’t fully comprehend the surreal experience of the brit milah (circumcision) until you’ve been a mother of a Jewish boy. It’s one thing to hand your newborn son over to a doctor who performs circumcision out of view – quickly, efficiently and without fuss. It’s an entirely different matter when you’re expected to throw a party 8 days after birthing a baby where everyone gathers to witness the removal of your son’s foreskin over bagels and lox.

It’s tough to be proud of ritual circumcision when so many of us these days are in the business of promoting the health and safety of humankind. Motherhood has helped me become acutely aware of health issues affecting our society. I support sustainable farming. I am a natural birth advocate. We send our children to an integrative pediatrician. The last thing you’d think we’d do is allow someone to take a knife to our helpless, newborn sons and remove their foreskins for no apparent health benefits. If I weren’t Jewish, I wouldn’t do it.

Some non-Jewish friends have chosen to circumcise their sons because they want father and son to have the same equipment. Obviously, this is not an issue for us. Of course, I could make a terribly inappropriate comment about the fact that most strap-ons are molded in the shape of circumcised willies, but then I’d be implying that a) we own a strap-on and that b) our sons would ever have the opportunity to compare their willies with the alleged strap on. As I will not confirm or deny the existence of said strap-on, I choose not to make the inappropriate comment.

I can’t intellectualize circumcision for those who rally against it. If you can suspend your moralizing long enough to appreciate cultural differences and respect a ritual that is as old as dirt, you might be able to understand the significance of the event. If not, feel free to “change the channel” and skip to another entry. I won’t be engaging in a debate about circumcision, so kindly keep your judgments to yourself.

So there we were; gathered in our lounge waiting to remove Asher’s foreskin on our dining room table. Our mohel was a star. He talked about the history of the ceremony and significance of each part of the ritual. He helped everyone appreciate that they were a part of something important. He put us all at ease throughout the procedure-walking us through every step with a calming tone. If I hadn’t been such a post-birth mess, I would have actually enjoyed the experience. Gabriella, on the other hand, was more traumatized than Asher. She stood in the corner of our flat-staring out the window weeping the entire time, bless her cotton socks.

And when all was said and done, the mohel asked us, “So, what are you going to do with the foreskin?” What?!? Who knew anyone was supposed to DO anything with the foreskin? I birthed my first baby a week ago. I’m spouting milk like an open fire hydrant in the middle of August. I’m lumbering around the house in my maternity clothes and the enormous, medieval pad stuck between my legs. Sweaty. Dizzy from not eating or sleeping and being in a constant state of new-mother shock. I haven’t left my bed since we brought baby home let alone hosted a party. I don’t even like lox. And now, this guy who knows way more about the Jewish tradition of circumcision than I ever will know asks me what I’m planning to do with the foreskin.

“What are we supposed to do with it,” we ask.

“Most people bury it.” And he handed us Asher’s foreskin wrapped neatly in gauze that was sealed with surgical tape. Because we could think of no other response, we accepted the package (so to speak) and nodded indicating that we would do exactly was expected of us. We thanked him for his help and paid him an exorbitant amount of money before sending him on his way. I guess you can’t really justify shopping for bargains when you’re dealing with your child’s bits.

When the last guest had congratulated us and gone home with the left-over lox, we lay with Asher in our bed. He was fast asleep. We agreed that it went as well as could be expected and regretted not having asked anyone to take pictures. We learned our lesson the second time around and documented Levi’s bris. “And what about the foreskin?” I asked Gabriella. “I guess we need to bury it.” “Where? We live in a flat with no outside space. You don’t want to bury it with one of our plants, do you?” “No!” “Do we bury it in Highgate Woods?” “Maybe we should wait until we’re in the U.S. and bury it somewhere there.” The conversation was absurd. It was as if we were trying to figure out where to spread our ashes. We couldn’t decide what to do. And, my friends, I must confess that we still have not decided what to do. That’s right. We are still in possession of Asher’s foreskin! I know. Bonkers. Not to worry, however. It is in a secure location and out of view.

Why haven’t we buried it in our back yard here in South Orange, New Jersey? I don’t know. Maybe because we don’t yet feel like this is home. Maybe we feel the need to identify a more significant-possibly spiritual-location. Or maybe we just like to freak out friends who come for dinner when we tell them that Asher’s foreskin may have been accidentally grated into to the marinade. Now that our little secret is out and published, it might be time to literally and figuratively bury the remains of Asher’s circumcision.

Levi was born here in the U.S. Obviously, we had to employ a different mohel to conduct the bris. He was an Israeli mohel, but the bris was strictly American. He passed out refrigerator magnets marketing his services to all our guests and boasted that he had also been the mohel for Jerry Seinfeld’s son, Julian. Levi’s mohel never asked us what we planned to do with his foreskin. I’m hoping that he took it upon himself to bury it somewhere. Maybe Levi’s foreskin is buried next to Julian Seinfeld’s and a tree is growing out of the soil that is fertilized by bits of their bits. A girl can dream, can’t she?