The jewelry kiosk sat right near the entrance. “We’re looking for earrings for the baby,” I said, stepping over to a saleslady.

She peeked into the Doona at the tiny bundle nestled inside. “How old is she?”

I held up two fingers.

“Two weeks or two months?”

“Weeks,” I said, glancing down at my peacefully sleeping angel.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow. She’s young.”

My mother laughed. “In America, this is considered old.”

“Well,” the saleslady said, pulling out a small tube, “the first step is to apply a layer of numbing cream.” She dabbed a small white blob onto the baby’s earlobes. “You’ll need to wait a half hour for it to fully kick in.”

A half hour? I thought this would be 1-2-3, leaving me free to shop the layette aisles on Grandma’s tab. But who was I to argue with the professionals?

So our three generations wandered off to stock up on prizes for the eineklach. Half an hour later, one hundred shekel-store prizes and two extra-large iced coffees in hand, we returned with what we hoped was a fully numb-eared baby.

The blonde saleslady pulled out a small tray. “These are the options we have for babies.”

I pointed to the delicate diamond studs I had in mind. She disappeared into the back to get them. A moment later, she returned. “Sorry, we don’t have that style.”

Hmmm. “Okay, how about the same thing but with the gold rim?”

She returned to the back. “Also out of stock.”

“What about these red rubies?” No, those weren’t suitable for babies — the post was too long, and I wouldn’t want to hurt my little princess.

I lowered my expectations and chose something a little simpler. Also unavailable. Then another option. Also too long a post. I kept settling for “lesser and lesser,” and each time, the saleslady shook her head.

“So… what do you have?” I finally asked, feeling like the servant of Marsa bas Baisus during the Roman siege of Yerushalayim. His master had sent him to the market for fine flour, but there was none when he got there. He returned for the next-best grade, and the next, on and on until there was nothing left to buy.

“We have this one in 14k.” The saleslady pointed to a solid gold pearl. It wasn’t my first choice, as I had really hoped for a pop of color — a soft pink, a tiny ruby, anything to brighten my baby’s sweet little face. But I had no choice.

“Let’s go for it,” my mother and I said in unison.

We lifted the baby gently onto the counter to dot the exact spot for the earrings. That’s when the real show began. A handful of ladies and men crowded around her, mouths agape. They’d never seen someone so young undergoing the procedure.

“Okay… right here,” the blonde saleslady said, placing a dot.

A coworker squinted. “No, no, that’s too high. Look, it’s practically on the cartilage.”

“I think it looks fine.”

“Hmmm. It’s crooked. Once the ear grows, it’ll move away from her face. Here, give me the marker.”

Dot erased.

A new dot appeared.

“Wait, that’s too far out,” the first saleslady said. “It has to be centered.”

My mother and I exchanged glances as the marker went on, came off, went on again. They asked us, “Does this look good?” at least a dozen times.

“Now?”

“Is it symmetrical?”

“Are you sure?”

Finally, they were satisfied. Then the gun came out.

Both salesladies took a breath. “Okay,” one whispered. “You do it, you’re steadier!”

“I’m not steady under pressure!” the other shot back. I almost offered to pierce my daughter’s ears myself.

After a moment of dramatic inhaling, one of them mustered the courage, positioned the gun, and click.

The baby didn’t even flinch. Not a peep. Completely unfazed, like she’d been through tougher things in her two weeks of life.

They turned her around for the second ear. She shifted a tiny bit, barely a wiggle but enough to make the salesladies freeze.

“She moved! She moved!”

“It’s fine,” I reassured them. “She needs to eat soon anyway, so just make it fast, and I’ll feed her after.”

“No, no,” they insisted, wide-eyed. “Feed her now. She must be calm.”

The clock was ticking on the numbness, but like a good girl, I scooped up the baby, and went to the nearby restroom to feed her.

When I came back, both salesladies came right back to us. I turned the baby onto her side. More people came to watch the “show.”

“A quick click and we’re done, yeah?” I tried speeding up the already endless process.

“So, um,” one saleslady admitted sheepishly, “the gun doesn’t seem to be working anymore. I’ll go get another one.”

Luckily, the gun was repaired quickly, and at long last, the second ear became the proud owner of gold pearl #2.

When the salesladies began detailing how often to apply the antibiotic ointment, I muttered an excuse to leave. I was not about to prolong this “ceremony” any further.

“So,” my mother said, “another girl, finally. Now you can relax.”

I had to laugh. All three of boys’ brissim combined didn’t take this much energy.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 978)