The Brisk

It basically was like a bad dream, having conversations in middle of the night, with the uncannily chipper nurses. "What's his name?" one asks. This is at about 4am, while they bring me some pain medication, they feel that it is the opportune time to have a chat. Perhaps I gave off the impression of wanting to have a conversation, although I was bleary eyed, bone tired and could barely sit up in bed. I replied that we didn't know yet, and we'd be naming him on the 8th day. Excited that she knew about this custom, she replies, "OH, You'll be naming him at the BRISK?" I think a for a second that I should let this go, after all it is 4am and I am about to pass out. But the thought of the woman calling a bris, a brisk for the next 20 years beckons me to correct her. After complimenting her on her vast knowledge, I mention that it is actually a BRIS, not BRISK. "Just ending with an S," I say. Oh, she is very excited at her new found knowledge. I imagine her scurrying down the hall with her electronic push cart of drugs back to the nurses station where she will share what she just learned from the lady in 423. The next afternoon, while once again receiving some Motrin 800, the day nurse asks me if I would be waiting to name my son at the BRISK. With no more patience for this matter and convinced that someone must have given a completely screwed up Judaism 101 lesson to the nurses on the maternity floor, I just smile and say "uh huh."