Friday, March 10, 2017

A Bris Is Still A Bris

Some need a sip of warm milk before bedtime. Some need a shot of brandy. I need a shot of "Seinfeld." Most nights, I can't fall asleep without spending a few minutes with Jerry and Elaine, George and Kramer. It's my comfort show. Last night, I saw one of my favorite episodes, "The Bris." When Jerry and Elaine agree to be godparents, Elaine hires the worst mohel in history, a psychotic nudnik with shaky hands. Poor Jerry has to hold the baby, and gets the tip of his finger sliced off. "You flinched!" the mohel says. In retaliation, Jerry calls him "Butcher Boy."
I howl every time I see "The Bris." My sons had non-catered, hospital circumcisions, both performed by a doctor named Milka Torbarina. "When they grow up," she said, post-snipping, "make sure you tell them a woman did this to them." I'm still waiting for the right time to break it to them.
I've only attended two brises. The first bris, I had the honor of holding the boychick, and much like Jerry, was a nervous wreck - shocking, I know - terrified of flinching and/or dropping the baby. Good news, I came through like a mensch. The second bris felt more like a wedding party than the typical bris n' brunch. I showed up with my toddler-eldest, both of us wearing shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. Under my arm: bathing suits. Everyone else was dressed for a fancy reception. Apparently, I had misunderstood the invitation. "Uh, we'll be back in a little while." We rushed home and changed. My greatest social faux pas ever.
Am I proud of this? Maybe just a brisel. (See what I did there? My first Yiddish pun. A bisel. A brisel. Let's call the hold thing off.)

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