Last night my husband reminded me of a funny story. A true story. But before I get to that, meet Abby our 17 year old cat. 17 1/2 to be exact. She was rescued from the side of the road that many years ago…meow.


Now to the story.

It was the summer of 1995 and it was to be our last lamaze class before our firstborn arrived. And I was honkin’ big let me tell ya. Instead of more breathing exercises and the like, the last class was an open question and answer session with one of the doctors from the practice.

Looking back I wonder what they were thinking. A room full of pregnant, waaaay pregnant women who had read, and reread every book available on the subject. Questions? We already had most of the answers. So it seemed.

The doctor with the privilege of being present for our questions was quite the southern gentlemen. He was a wise old doctor. He donned a bowtie and all, with a thick southern accent earned only by a genuine southern upbringing. He was a doctah.

While I was still hung up on the baby’s-head-fitting-through-a-small-opening-the-size-of-the-sink-drain concept, everyone else seemed cool to move on to other topics. So as I contemplated scripture, especially the whole camel through the eye of a needle visual, questions ensued.

Breast feeding was now the topic for the hour. Now don’t get me wrong, I had read all the books and considered all of the problems that might arise with breast feeding but that baby has got to get out first. My only thought was that the breast feeding questions were a distraction from the inevitable. One after another a slew of breast feeding questions were asked.

“What if my milk doesn’t come in?”

“What if the baby doesn’t latch on?”

“I’m worried the baby is not going to like my milk. What do I do?”

“What’s the best pump method to use?”

The calm, patient, southern gentleman of a doctor that he was, was very accommodating and answered each and every query. Until they didn’t stop. The initial question had started a flurry of concern and he saw that more questions were coming. So before another was asked he gently began to speak…

“Ladies, let me tell ya… I’ve got this old mama cat at home. And that cat just lays down on the floor and her kittens know what to do. Breast feeding is not an intellectual endeavah.”
(endeavah, as in rathah, weathah, or whatevah…)

True story. And yes, those questions stopped.

Now before you send me some meanie mail about how I’m bashing the importance of breast feeding, fageddaboutit. I know its importance. I know there are complications and problems – I had difficulties with breast feeding both of my children.

But they ate.

And they grew.

And they were (and are) fine and dandy, whether I had worried and fretted or not.

The point is, that whether it’s breast feeding or building a house, sometimes we can get all worked up with the stuff that will eventually work itself out along the way, one way or another.

Worry. Anxiousness. Stress. They all do no good in the long run do they?

I’m hoping that I can remember this lesson from the wise old doctah with the holidays fast approaching. I tend to get my knickers in a bunch over unimportant things and miss the whole point.

Maybe this year will be different.

How ’bout you? Any holiday advice to pass on? Or do you have a funny story from a wiser one than we?