When my wife insisted we circumcise our son, I wondered why the little guy couldn’t just look like me. Then I began to re-evaluate our entire relationship with half the self-esteem and twice the paranoia.
I am an uncircumcised man.
This has never bothered my wife, Nicole. Or so I thought. “It’s like your penis is wearing a turtleneck,” she’d sometimes say, seemingly benignly.
As such, there was never any doubt in my mind that, should my wife and I ever produce a miniature me, he would also go uncircumcised. We would leave his little thing alone. No snip-snip, just like daddy.
Until, that is, the late-September day when we brought our newborn son home from the hospital. It was chilly, and the tightly wrapped baked potato of a boy felt warm in the crook of my arm.
“We’re getting Dalton circumcised,” my wife said as she fastened the potato into his car seat.
“What?” I said. “Since when does he need that?”
“Ever since uncircumcised penises are weird.”
She paused before adding, a little backpedally, “Except yours, of course. Yours is OK.”
This is how I learned my wife’s true feelings about the type of penis I have—by comparing it to our infant son’s. She thinks—has always thought—“OK.” I knew what “OK” meant, of course. “OK” meant weird, just like she’d said.The author continues to paint a picture of two exceedingly superficial dolts who really had no business breeding. Sadly, their boy has already paid his price for entry into their house.
I tell you, in my perfect world, that couple would be frog marched down to the local mohel for a taste of their own medicine. Both of them.