
The Luxton Brothers, from their Then/Now Series
By: Rebecca Cooney
It began with a fleeting moment in a London cab, as I sat watching the rivulets of rain blurring the storefront lights as we drove along in the dark. “ I wonder if his brother is circumcised?” The brother being my son’s new little brother from another mother. Obviously, being a single mom, I have the same thought sometimes during dates, though it’s usually more of a third date type of question. Or an after three double Jamesons type of question. But in all seriousness, or semi-seriousness, I really don’t know the answer about my son’s brother. I haven’t mustered the combination of brazenness or insatiable curiosity that might motivate me to simply ask his father outright what they decided to do. But it begs the question (‘begs’ is a little strong, maybe like ‘makes itself known’ after a transatlantic flight) of how physical standards for children within a blended family are applied.
Circumcision is, like so many other aspects of parenthood, contentious. One of those hot button topics that might light your Facebook wall up like Christmas if you came out ardently in favor of one side or the other. When it comes to downstairs, people have opinions.
Meditating on downstairs, I am reminded of being in downtown Indianapolis this last Fall for my best friend Carolyn’s wedding. As some of us wandered around in search of a boozy brunch, we were startled to see a man dressed all in white with a sign in each hand, “STOP INFANT CIRCUMCISION” and “HIS BODY. HIS CHOICE. HIS RIGHT.” What we didn’t notice at first was the squarely placed smear of red paint in the man’s crotch. It was picketing and performance art all rolled into one earnest and provocative Midwestern display. Yes, the words “provocative” and “Midwestern” in the same sentence. He wasn’t alone either. With each street we crossed, we saw a few more similarly attired crotch-splotched protestors. And then a throng of them on the steps of the Capitol. Apparently, the men of Indianapolis have a problem with circumcision. Yet, they don’t seem to have a problem with wearing white denim after Labor Day.
Circumcision is a decision, or non-decision, any parents of an infant son must make—even those in the Midwest. Or when he’s 14, as is still the case in some cultures. The vision of my son Will, surly and pubescent, holding a skateboard and flipping his long hair out of his eyes while I explain that we’re headed to the old doc or shaman or whomever for a little nip and tuck is not a tempting one. Luckily, though he may not agree, we’ve already “addressed” this situation.
The post-birth hospital environment, where many circumcisions take place, was simply too frenetic to take care of business—bili baby disco lights and trying to get a pink-faced potato to latch properly. But, conveniently, my ob/gyn just happened to be an Orthodox Jew and a trained mohel (Welcome to Brooklyn!). So the week after William was born, we brought him in to the doctor’s office. Mommy (that would be me in case you are having a hard time following along at home) elected to stay in the waiting room with the dog-eared Parent magazines, trying to dissociate and pretend not to hear the biologically tuned screaming over the flimsy partition wall. Daddy, who had resolutely stood by during the actual procedure, didn’t seem too phased by it. Actually, he seemed to be a little proud of himself that he didn’t faint or snatch the child from the table, sprinting down the street and yelling, “She made me bring him here!” There was some reciprocity, though, as the post-snip maintenance fell squarely to me. For every diaper change, the bandage too had to be changed. Consequently, at every diaper change, the nasal Brooklyn accent of the nurse from the parenting class echoed in my head, “You wrap it like a hawt dawg. Take a few sheets of gawze, like the bun. And then a swipe of A + D ointment is like the mustahd and he’ll be good to go.” And he was.
With each passing year, the number of infant boys who are circumcised and who require A + D mustard dressings dwindles a bit. As of 2010, the rate in the US was approximately 58%. Not surprising really. For as many reasons as there are to circumcise boys—aesthetics, cultural norms, the possible reduction in risk of sexually transmitted infections—there are obviously the counterpoints. His body. His choice. His right. Diminished sensitivity. Several of my male friends would stop me right there with a look of abject horror. What more reason do you want, woman?
The circumcision rate in this family of boys may be of little interest to anyone besides myself—100% circumcision rate? 50? As of maybe 2015, I anticipate a tub time where two guys do a little comparing. And then we’ll probably get to the bottom (or front) of this mystery. It might, however, be a subtle or gradual realization. He is, after all, more of a boob guy. And living in a place like Park Slope where foreskins most certainly abound and locker rooms are as rare as 3-bedroom apartments, it might not come up (a completely terrible and intentional pun for which I don’t apologize). He may even move into adulthood having never really thought much about it. Will he then, home from Wesleyan over Winter break, full of ideas from whatever “Power, Politics, Normcore, Beyoncé, and Circumcision” seminar he’s taking, accuse me of destroying his genital integrity? Probably. But then again, I’m sure when he’s 18 he’ll take issue with me for lots of things. Like this column for one.
Rebecca Cooney is a mom to a 4-year-old man baby and, in her spare time, the North American editor of The Lancet. You can follow her on Twitter: @BekRx.