Ever outspoken about what I considered the "barbaric" nature of the bris ritual, it is no wonder I was blessed with two sons. Experiencing it once was pure agony. But it was as I stood on the sidelines awaiting my younger son's circumcision, in pensive conversation with my brother, that I realized I -- and women like me -- deserved to shed our status as victims and claim our own meaning in this tradition.

During my first son's bris, I spent the length of the ceremony sobbing uncontrollably into my mother-in-law's arms. Resentful of a male-dominated faith that prioritized exalting masculinity at the expense of the freshly post-partum woman, I wondered, what insensitive tradition expects a new mother to host and entertain a mere eight days after giving birth? And all while bearing witness to a stranger causing her perfect newborn to writhe in pain?

While the joy of caring for my new baby boy quickly eroded the painful memory of the bris, my second pregnancy brought with it renewed discomfort over the ritual, along with my second son. Shortly after his birth, I conducted an informal survey among Jewish mothers, questioning their experiences of their own sons' britot milah, the pressures they felt, their motivations and reactions.

I heard from women who would have forgone the bris, but for familial expectations; women who reveled in the large gathering of friends and family assembled to welcome their sons into the Jewish community; women who could not imagine such fanfare -- in one mother's words: "The idea of 'celebrating' this event with people, food, and small talk was so counter to everything I was feeling;" and at least one woman who believed the pain inflicted upon her son during his circumcision affected him -- and his relationship with her -- for life.

While many of these mothers shared my "bris guilt," the overwhelming majority spoke of the importance of bringing their sons into the covenant and the connection they felt to generations of Jews who have carried out this same ritual. Brilliant friends of mine in fields of flux such as medicine and education reported to me that they followed through with the ceremony solely out of a commitment to tradition. (Ironically, almost immediately afterwards, one of these same friends, a doctor, chastised me for not administering vitamin D drops to my baby. Apparently, although never recommended before, a recent study revealed that our natural vitamin D levels are now deficient enough to warrant intervention.)

It has been a long time since tradition, in and of itself, has been reason enough for me to do anything. If it's simply because we've been doing it this way for hundreds or even thousands of years, I figure I may as well give my child a cigarette and sleep him on his belly from day one. (Fine, religion is different than science -- I know. But why? Why does religion seemingly get a pass when it comes to the need for evolutionary relevance?)