by Carolyn O'Brien

Created on: January 27, 2009

I used to imagine myself with little girls. Serene, placid and selfless. I was dressed in pastels with a secret Mona Lisa smile on my lips. The girls were angelic and we were, all of us, fuzzy around the edges and ethereal. I alternated between baking cookies and staring dreamy-eyed and fey out of the kitchen window.

From day one I knew instinctively the child I was carrying was a boy. He couldn't bear for me to lie down and still to this day he cannot abide my relaxing. The minute I get comfortable he thinks of something that requires my immediate inspection/opinion/height/strength or expertise.

I often think that if I was to collapse on the floor in death throes, my children would stand around kicking me ... "Get up Mum, I want a drink"; "I'm hungry"; "Get me a bottle - NOW!" But I digress, another legacy of motherhood is the inability to keep a train of thought on track without the inevitable deviation to the station of Alzheimer's, near Dementiaville.

The singularly terrifying prospect of raising boys began its insidious attack on my nervous system almost immediately. The dreaded decision which had haunted me for nine months - to circumcise or not to circumcise, that was the the question. After agonising silently for a day or so there was to be a communal baby bathing demonstration in the hospital. While almost drowning my own child in the process I systematically checked out that particular part of the anatomy of every boy child within craning distance. This of course, led to several distressed mothers hastily covering the lower half of their infants and beating a hasty retreat. I was given a wide berth amidst whispered allegations and horrified furtive glances over their shoulders.

Over the next couple of days I interrogated every person I came in contact with for their views on circumcision, from the cleaning lady to the poor man who installed my rental TV. I'll never forget his discomfort. "Bit frosty lady, but it'll be OK" he said, and bolted.

The concensus was this. It seemed that the criteria by which most parents determined their decision was based on whether or not the father of the child was "done'. It didn't seem a very valid reason to me, so I was largely unimpressed with this method. Still, I approached my husband. He shrugged his shoulders and declared that it was up to me in his most non-committal mumble, then unhelpfully turned his back.

Hospital policy, or should I say fashion, at that time, dictated that circumcision was not routinely carried

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