It was the morning of my eldest son’s bris, on the eighth day of his life. As he is my first child, it was also my eighth day of motherhood. I was sore, exhausted, and overwhelmed. Family and friends were coming in from all over and I was expected to put on a dress, come to synagogue, and smile as my child endured a strange and ancient custom, one that I supported but still made me cringe.
I am sure that the experience was more painful for me than for him. But when I look back on his early days, that Jewish ceremony is not the strangest thing that happened to my newborn son.
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