We never gave much thought to circumcision. Our son was a surviving twin born at 27 weeks gestation. He spent the first 76 days of his life in the newborn intensive care unit at Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago. Because he was fighting for his life, there were more pressing matters to consider than the shape of his penis.

I had never really questioned why I was circumcised. It wasn’t done for religious reasons. And I had never wondered what my life would have been like had I not been snipped. The look and shape of my penis are nothing more than a part of who I am. No different, really, than the hair on my chest or the mole above my left eyebrow.

The doctors first brought up the subject a week before our son’s discharge. They told us that if we wanted to have him circumcised, it would be most convenient to schedule it with his hernia surgery. It would be a two-for-one.

My wife had said that because I was the one with the penis, the decision was up to me. For me, there wasn’t a choice. I’m circumcised. Of course my son would be.