forewarned

I lost my son’s foreskin.

I’m just going to say it.

It was wrapped in tissue, sealed in a baggie, and tucked into the diaper bag after the bris. Now, it’s gone. I feel horrible. The mohel even reminded me. “Don’t forget to bury the foreskin,” he shouted as he climbed into his new car to drive home. (Would’ve made for an odd Lexus commercial.)

I’m trying to let it go. I tell myself that new parents are always scattered. And it might not be my fault anyway. A lot of people handled Baby G’s diaper bag. The chain of custody: my father, my friend Kyle, Kyle’s date that day (what was her name?), my cousin….

Who am I kidding, as dad, I’m the responsible party.

But, come on, how crucial is this? In Hebrew school, they had a lot to say about brises, but I can’t remember anything about severed foreskins. Maybe the burial is becoming one of those curious Jewish traditions that no one actually does anymore. Like burning wooden spoons before Passover. Or marrying other Jews.

I look it up at 3:00 in the morning. Turns out lots of people are doing it. Mostly under trees. 

Livekabbalah.com tells me: The foreskin is the symbol of the negative consciousness/energy in our world.

Okay, I think, then it’s a good thing I lost it. But I read on. Apparently putting the foreskin in the ground is the only way to eliminate its negative energy. Something about the dirt. What’s more, the bad vibe doesn’t just affect me and G, but also those around us. This foreskin has some serious scope. Holy shit, I think. Am I responsible for Trump?

I look at more sites, hoping this one is bunk, written by some basement-dwelling mystic. The news is all bad. You have to bury the foreskin. You do not want to lose the foreskin.

Then I remember. A few years back, I watched the mohel at my friend Hank’s kid’s bris in Brooklyn sprinkle soil into the foreskin baggie. She explained it was a way to meet the burial obligation–since so many parents forget. A loophole! But for the life of me–perhaps it was the Manishewitz–I can’t remember if my mohel put dirt in G’s baggie.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. If someone threw the baggie away, or if it’s just lost, like under a couch cushion or in a car trunk–who’s to say that’s not a burial? There’s dirt everywhere.

And here’s the thing, would I have buried it by now, anyway–or would I still be stuck on finding the right spot? After the mohel drove off, what came to me was the hillside behind my house. But raccoons–there’s a problem. And I rent. Would I exhume it when I move?

My friend Hank had big plans for his son’s little speck. He was determined to bury it under the pitcher’s mound at the brand new $2.3 billion Yankee stadium. After months of letters and calls to various members of Yankee management and even the mayor’s office, he eventually accepted that it wasn’t going to happen.

Until Hank’s son’s foreskin was finally laid to rest in Central Park, I remember worrying that somebody would mistake the baggie of dirt in Hank’s freezer for a dessert topping and sprinkle it on a sundae. I checked on it every so often. I swore to myself I would never freeze my son’s foreskin if I were to become a parent. Sure enough, I didn’t. If I had, I’d know where my son’s foreskin is.