Ayala, I try reasoning with myself. You have two options. You can either get to work making phone calls or you can cry

It’s seven days after the birth of my beautiful boy. He’ll be having a bris tomorrow at 9:30 a.m., but I notice the baby seems a bit yellow.

I immediately call a nurse who checks for jaundice. “His numbers are high, but not too high to delay the bris. We just need to make sure they don’t go higher or else you won’t be able to have the bris tomorrow morning.”

Upon hearing that, I panic. I think of the hall, the caterer, the photographer, and the many guests who are planning on coming. Most of all, I think of my grandfather who has flown in to Israel from the US for three days to be sandek. My husband looks at my face. “It’s no use stressing, all we can do is daven and hope,” he tells me.

I get a sefer Tehillim, open it, stare at the letters, and then, unable to focus, close it. This is no use, I think, and put it back on the shelf.

Near the Tehillim, I notice the silver tzedakah box. I eye it for a moment and then decide I’m going to give tzedakah in the zechus that the bris will be on time.

Sleep doesn’t come that night. Prince Charming’s color seems to be changing by the moment — and not for good. At 6:00 a.m. I look at the big black circles under my eyes and thank the person who invented under-eye concealer.

At 6:30 a.m., the nurse comes to check the baby. At 6:33 a.m. the bris is officially postponed.

Ayala, I try reasoning with myself. You have two options. You can either get to work making phone calls or you can cry.