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“Didn’t you ever smoke?” my little ones’ mother asked while lighting a cigarette of her own.
I shook my head no. “Well, for about five minutes,” I admitted. “I never liked it. Which is a good thing, because if I’d liked it, I never would have been able to stop.”
She nodded. “I stopped when I was pregnant for the first time, but with this one?” She nodded toward her second child, my little boy. “I drank, and smoked, and smoked cigarettes.” The boy in question chose that moment to attempt a dive off the picnic table, so the thread of the conversation dropped.
Moments later (perhaps encouraged by his aborted acrobatic efforts), the boy filled his diaper. “You never got him circumsised?” she asked, watching the changing process from a safe distance. “Aren’t you going to?”
“No, I’m not planning on it. He’s perfectly fine intact.”
“He’ll get an infection,” she worried. “It’s a scientific fact that guys get infections if they don’t get cut.”
“If he wants to have it removed when he’s older, I’ll help him set it up,” I said, hiking up the pants of the boy with difficulty, as he was straining to get back to the very important business of climbing.
And then someone tried to play with the trash can, and someone else tried to break toward the parking lot, and someone else’s toy fell into the mud. Both of us responded to these little issues until the time allotted for the visit was over.
It wasn’t until the drive home that her comments sunk into my head. How is one expected to reply to the perfectly casual mention of alcohol and drug use during pregnancy juxtaposed with the irrational worry about an intact foreskin?



