Yada Yada Yada:The Grass Is Not Always Greener on Seinfeld

You say that if you change one more diaper you’ll scream.  You ask if you throw in the towel will you have to wash it too?  Next to being a doormat, nothing is more stepped on than a stay-at-home mother.  You secretly yearn to be single and footloose and fancy-free.  

When we think of singles, we think of Seinfeld.   Jerry Seinfeld’s wacky single world with it’s zany characters always kept you laughing.  But finding  Mr. Right always went wrong on Seinfeld.  I thought the final episode bombed.   I wanted the guy to get the girl, not wind up in jail.

I am a true romantic.  I wish Seinfeld had just proposed to Elaine on the show.  But here’s what he’d probably say about that: “Are you kidding me?  Yada yada.  Get outta here.” Does anyone ever say yackety-yack anymore? I think that phrase from the 1950s went out of vogue along with poodle skirts and saddle shoes.

It’s hard to believe the final Seinfeld episode aired 18 years ago this week.

Even though it’s been said that Seinfeld was a sitcom about nothing, it showed mothers something.




It made us realize that the grass may be greener getting grass stains out of our kids’ clothes.


Tick Tock, Tick Tock, How to Put a Sock in Your Biological Clock

When is a woman too old to have a baby?  In the past, if you had enough hot flashes in a month to feel like Alicia Keys singing Girl On Fire, you would have been done.  But now it seems the joy of motherhood can come at any age.  If you’ve been trying to have a baby, it might be time to book a flight to India. 

A  72-year-old Indian woman has given birth to a healthy baby boy with the help of a fertility clinic.  Sky News is reporting that Daljinder Kaur and her 79-year-old husband became parents last month through in vitro fertilization.  The couple was childless for 46 years.  Kaur said when interviewed:”My inspiration was Over the Hill Mom.  If she can do it, I can too.”

Like a plant that never stops blooming, I’ve been a perennial mother of a small child  for my entire adult life, aiming for the Guinness World Record. I decided to have my first child in my 20s, my second in my 30s, and my last in my 40s.


Hearing about the Indian birth,  I’m thinking of  having another child.   This is a big decision, so I had to put some thought into it. After wrestling with this for at least five or ten minutes, I made up my mind.  “Pack your bags,” I told my  husband, “we’re going to India.

“You are out of your mind,”  he said not sounding too supportive. “We already have three kids.”  He did that little eye-rolling thing husbands do when they’re ticked off.  “And besides, you probably won’t be able to breastfeed,” he protested.

“There’s always goat milk and they don’t kill cows in India,” I said.  I had all the bases covered.

When I told the kids they were really excited about going to India.  They want to take selfies in front of the Taj Mahal to post on Instagram.  It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World.







My husband became so  terrified when I told him I wanted more kids that he never slept or shaved for three days.   “We’ll become the Eighth Wonder of the World,” he quipped.  He’s wondering if he’ll ever see another home-cooked meal, pair of clean socks or underwear again in his lifetime.  

“I’ll find some great no-cook recipes for no-cook meals,” I assured him.  And of course, he’s worried about money.

“Many people have twins or triplets when they go to fertility clinics, don’t they?” he asked sweating.   He had a point.

“How will we get these kids home?” he asked.  He’s always thinking ahead.

He’s picturing himself as if he were one of the elderly grandparents who all share a bed in the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  He’ll be eating a supper of watery cabbage soup and a melted chocolate bar.  “We’re going to starve,” he said thinking he’d have to feed an army.

He’s just being ridiculous.  If we decide to stay in India it’s cheaper there.  There will be plenty of food to eat.   India is known for it’s  exotic delicacies.  It’s not  just cabbage soup he’ll but eating, but red ants, snail stew with steamed hornet larvae, and goat’s liver. Behhhh…now that should get his goat.

Hovering is for Helicopters and Prom Moms

There comes a point in every mother’s life when she’s told she has to let go.  Kelly Ripa, one of my favorite television stars, is in the news after revealing on her show that she wants to be “overly involved” and help her son Michael get ready for his prom.  She thinks he needs a  hand with the corsage. teenagers-699784__180 She wants her son’s date to be as happy as the young woman pictured with the man here. Ripa believes her son doesn’t know anything about corsages and if left to his own devices,  he’ll pick a potted plant instead.   She knows her son.

Michael Strahan, Ripa’s co-host on Live! With Kelly and Michael, encouraged her to let her son do it his way saying he’ll learn from his mistakes if he gets it wrong.  Women help their daughters find prom dresses.  What’s wrong with finding a corsage for a son?  I agree with Ripa.   But then who am I to talk?   I’ve been accused of being a helicopter mom.

I wouldn’t let my daughter walk to school, ride the bus, or take a math test without tutoring.   I always bought Velcro sneakers, so she wouldn’t trip.  I’ll never forget the time her elementary school teacher called me in a for a conference.

“Hovering is for helicopters,” the teacher instructed, insisting I was coddling by pushing the wheelchair when my daughter had a broken leg.  My daughter was in a cast and totally incapacitated.  “You have to let her take the fall now or she will later,” the teacher said.

“But I thought she already took a fall?” I said.  This know-it-all, windbag with a swelled helium head, thought she knew something I didn’t know.  Her words floated away.

I resent all this unsolicited advice.  I really do.  I hate the advice, I hate the people who give it, and I hate having to sit there and listen.  Mothers know our children better than anyone else.

And it’s not like kids come with instructions.  It would be so much easier if along with the umbilical cord each baby came with a set of directions.  A simple Post-it note on the baby’s forehead would do. It could say something like:Loves blueberries, has chocolate allergy, should be burped every three or four hours, will be a terrible teenager.  At least this information would give you a heads up.  But no, we go through parenting like a car rounding a blind curve, never knowing if there is a tractor trailer coming at you in the wrong lane.  Let’s face it, if something goes wrong, mothers are the first ones you blame.  girl-947754_960_720So, when Ripa’s son has his date show up wearing a potted plant to the prom, you better hope it’s being held at the botanical gardens.



Middle Age Muggle Mother’s Guide to Harry Potter at Universal Studios Hollywood

Ever since I rode the Tower of Terror at Disney World and couldn’t get the spike out of my hair for a week,  I decided to play it safe  and swear off amusement park rides forever.   I figure at my age I’ll wind up with more than a bad hair day.   My back will be as thrown as a football passed  by Broncos quarterback Peyton Manning  in the Super Bowl.

But my youngest daughter  begged me to go to Universal Studios Hollywood where the Harry Potter rides just opened.   The most daring ride is Harry Potter and The Forbidden Journey. 20160414_132601 The tip-off  is the warning that says:  This ride is not recommended  if you are pregnant, prone to heart or vision problems, limp, drool, or are a namby-pamby, pantywaist, whimpering wimp who  believes a  warlock is after you.  I had discussed my fear of warlocks with my therapist recently,  so I knew I was done.  Strapped in with a harness that locks your head in on either side, I was jerked around in the dark.

“Stop being a weenie!” my daughter chided watching me flinch at every turn.

It’s the closest  you’ll get to riding  a Quidditch broomstick flying alongside Harry Potter.  You dip, turn, and twist playing this wizarding sport on broomsticks.  I had an unfortunate encounter with Lord Voldemort who put a motion sickness spell on me.  Luckily, during turbulence on the flight to Los Angeles, I had slipped a barf bag into my purse.

Photo-on-9-16-14-at-6.26-PM-300x200I also  rode a number of rough 3-D rides in other areas of the park where you are tossed around, like the Simpsons Ride where they tell you a killer who escaped from prison named Sideshow Bob is on the loose.   It’s a simulated  ride, so if you have to wait in a long line like my husband and I did, it’s not worth it. Although the line did get shorter when I barfed all over my seat.   I should have bought a bulk of barf bags online.  The ride is also a pain in the neck. Luckily, Los Angeles has a number of good hospitals and doctors.

The UCLA doctor was toying with calling someone from the psych ward when I told him that I had been done in by Lord Voldemort and was afraid a psycho killer named Bob was after me too.  But then he examined my x-rays more closely.

“Is that what I think I see? he blurted out.  He thought he saw  a lightning-bolt shaped scar on the back of my skull.  Holding a rabbit’s foot charm over my heart, the doctor recited the following phrase:“As these words of mine are spoken, let the evil curse be broken!”

He  advised me to avoid the  Honeydukes candy shop at Hogsmeade Village where I had downed one too many Exploding Bon-Bons, Cauldron Cakes, Fizzing Whizzbees and Chocolate Frogs, which contain a wizard trading card in each box.  He suggested a vegan died instead.

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He also thought I should  lay low until Sidebar Bob was captured.  Here I was with my life on the line and all my husband cared about was his empty wallet. “Look at the pickle we’ve in,” he said waving the wallet in my face.

He was peeved that along with other crazed fans, I had spent hundreds of dollars at the Hogsmeade shops on wands, robes, and stuffed owls.

He also had no emergency room copay, so the doctor advised  him to down a pint of Hog’s Head brew before opening the hospital bill.