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June 3, 2005
Planning the picture-perfect bris
Mohel's wife witnesses myriad emotions at ceremonies – and
deals with her own as her due date approaches.
FELISA BILLET
When I congratulated Julie at her son's bris, I couldn't believe
she looked better than I did at my wedding. Like most of the other
women attending the ritual circumcision, I was amazed that anyone
could be so put together eight days after giving birth.
Trim and graceful with manicured nails and perfect make-up, Julie
went out of her way to insist that I sample the blintz soufflé
on the elaborate buffet table, making me highly doubtful that this
could be the same woman who had just shared her horror story describing
30 hours of excruciating labor. And four of them were spent pushing!
Women like Julie shouldn't shock me anymore, but somehow they still
do. As the wife of a mohel, I have seen them all. From moms who
fit into their pre-pregnancy size six suits to others who still
generously fill their maternity clothes that make me wonder if they
already had the baby, meeting new mothers is routine as grocery
shopping.
Milah, Jewish ritual circumcision, permeates my home in uncanny
ways. During dinner, it is our favorite conversation opener and
the autoclave my husband uses to sterilize his instruments has piqued
the interests of many of our guests, wondering if we use it to sterilize
our baby's bottle nipples as well. While I am trying to watch my
weight, my husband jumps at the opportunity to get ice cream at
the local Carvel's because his favorite surgical supply store is
on the way.
One of the best perks of living with a resident mohel is when I
accidentally cut myself in the kitchen and my husband runs for his
gauze pads and polysporin. After all, healing a wound is his forte,
bandages are his passion. I may be the only woman in the world who
has had avkas bris, a white powder manufactured in Jerusalem
especially for mohelim, sprinkled on her kitchen cut.
More than anything, as a mohel's wife, I have gained a profound
appreciation for the role of a new mom. I am always amazed when,
eight days after giving birth to a boy, while she is sore from pushing,
exasperated from a lack of sleep, nervous her newborn is not eating,
irritated by her aching breasts, annoyed with the wobbly doughnut
that has replaced her stomach and often recovering from routine
surgical procedures such as a C-section or an episiotomy –
not to mention she's post-partum and definitely hormonal –
a new mother is expected to entertain guests at her son's bris when
the last thing she wants to do is get dressed. No matter how sensitive
the mohel is, a mom still emotionally raw from the experience of
giving birth is pulled by polar opposites, the innate need to mother
her baby and the social obligation of putting on a happy face while
her son goes through minor surgery.
When I was pregnant with our first child, I wondered if I would
be able to live up to the legacy so many amazing women have placed
before me. I doubted I could be like Melissa, who vaginally delivered
twin boys and showed up at her synagogue's social hall eight days
later as cool as Jackie O. in a mint-colored moiré. Or like
Shira who, after greeting her guests, made sure the caterer wrapped
up the extra food for a charity in order that none of it go to waste.
I definitely couldn't follow in Dena's footsteps. She not only attended
the early morning prayer services, but gave a 10-minute speech during
the meal following the bris.
A month before my due date, my husband and I discussed the details
of a bris just in case we were having a boy. Of course we knew which
mohel to use, but other aspects required more planning. During our
research, I found myself wishing I belonged to the group of Chassidic
women where a new mother customarily stays at home while her son's
bris takes place in the synagogue. To be relieved of the pressure
to entertain when all I would want to do is nest, appealed to me
as an unorthodox and refreshing idea. But what would the spirit
of a bris be like without the mother in attendance? Without her
smiling countenance and nervously clasped hands? Without her joyful
tears and runny mascara?
Although we spent evenings contemplating the perfect bris, comparing
small affairs with elaborate ones, making a guest list and then
crossing out half the names only to realize it was still too large,
we never found an ideal solution. In the beginning of our discussions,
the idea of creating an environment where a new mother can feel
comfortable – in attendance yet free of pressure to play the
role of hostess – seemed attainable. But when my water broke
two weeks early, I was disheartened that my image of a picture-perfect
bris was still fingertips out of our reach.
So when I gave birth to a girl and blissfully didn't leave my house
for the first three weeks, I was grateful for the opportunity to
bide my time, wondering if, perhaps with my next baby, I will be
up to making a bris.
Felisa Billet is a freelance writer living in Forest Hills,
N.Y.
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