tradition

Let’s mutilate a child and then eat!

These are the words I imagine coming from the mouth of the mohel–the effusive pediatrician I hired for Baby G’s Jewish circumcision. He is about to begin the bris ceremony.

Forty people are lining the far wall of my brother’s living room, a few more hovering nervously by the buffet table. Only my buddy, Steve, is brave enough to sit in one of the folding chairs, front and center. The entire room is silent, except for the sound of someone loading a paper plate with potato knish or trout. All eyes are on the mohel, or more specifically, on the mohel’s hands as they hover over Baby G’s privates. My buddy Steve leans forward in his seat.

I’d like to be standing in back with the others, as far as possible from this mohel, who is visibly sweating down his neck and smells strongly and strangely of vanilla–sending me, momentarily, to a place of cake and birthdays. But I have to be here, standing over my new baby with a plastic cup of Manishewitz and a knot of gauze. The syrupy wine is for Baby G. My job is drip it into his mouth, just enough to keep him calm while his penis is sliced.

As the mohel cleans him with an alcohol wipe, Baby G seems fine, he’s smiling up at me, so I’m pouring intervals of Manishewitz into my dad’s mouth instead. My dad has the hardest job. His lap is the operating table. We need him calm. If I pass out, maybe I’ll fall into my sister. But if my dad passes out, his only grandson could lose his pecker. Keeping my dad relaxed seems more important than temporary pain management for the child. Eight days earlier, this kid squeezed through a birth canal, for chrissake. I’m thinking he can handle a small incision. Then again, my judgement may be impaired. I downed the first two cups of the stuff right before we began. (Having misinterpreted their purpose when the mohel handed them to me.)

The mohel starts off by describing the tradition and telling jokes that have nothing to do with circumcision (bravo, I think, he doesn’t make the easy choices!). He pulls back the blanket and reveals my son’s penis, now clamped into a medieval-looking contraption. He’s still doing his comedy, making good eye contact with his audience. My Aunt Jean giggles.

Focus! I’m too stunned to get the word out. Stop talking and focus!

I take a breath. I don’t want to startle him. I remind myself that this guy is an expert. Who am I to micromanage a mohel?

The mohel had informed me during our phone interview that he was inspired to go to mohel training after his own son’s bris, when something that mohel did went terribly wrong.

Now he’s quipping about elephants and earthquakes. The scalpel glints in his right hand.

“You sure can multitask.” I’ve interrupted him. Everyone has turned to me. I stammer, “Right? I mean you know how to multitask like this, right?” I wave for my sister’s attention and point to the wine glass for a refill. The mohel resumes. I stick the gauze in my own mouth and suck it dry of Manischewitz.

I look at my dad and realize he’s swaying, not from passing out, but shit, I think I’ve made him drunk. He’s grinning. Just as I’m miming to my sister to please bring me a cup of coffee for my dad (only half caff so he’s not jittery and yes I still want the wine–a challenging mime), the mohel announces he’s finished.

We all let out a sigh. My buddy Steve claps.

The mohel pours himself and then me a shot of whiskey from the buffet table and toasts to life. My mind flashes back to what he said about his own son’s bris.

The What happened to your son’s penis? question is one you feel compelled to ask, but for all the wrong reasons.

Ultimately, I decide I don’t need to know.

[Feeling faint? Click here for tips on what to do.]

[Jews circumcise penises. Click here to learn why.]