Gilda and I will be making our way up north this weekend in advance of our grandson’s Brit Milah (also known simply as a Bris, a ritual circumcision) on Monday.
Finley Hawthorne Forseter is just four days old but already he’s giving me angst. No, it has nothing to do with the Bris. It has everything to do with a name. Not his. Mine! What will he call me once he’s able to articulate syllables?
It’s not as if I have a year or so to make my choice. His parents have advised they will be preconditioning him to my name (and that of his grandmother) in the days, weeks and months ahead. So the selection has to be made pretty quickly.
Sabah (Hebrew for grandfather) is out. I’m just not comfortable with that affectation. Gramps, Grandpa, Grandpa Murray...I’m really at a loss.