Whole-hearted, half-baked

Ricky: What's so bad with being a drummer?

Lucy: It's just not good enough for a son of mine.

Ricky: Well, it's good enough for a husband of yours.

Lucy: Well, that's different.

Ricky: How is that different?

Lucy: He's my flesh and blood. You're just a close relative.

Motherhood is tricky business, a thorny subject to dance around. As a mother of two who is frankly relieved if my kids are breathing at the end of every chaotic day, I don’t buy into the “perfect mother” myth. I suspect Lucy didn’t either. Unfortunately, we viewers don’t get to see the former Miss McGillicuddy up to her elbows in motherly dirty work: diaper changes, time-outs…those everyday chores existed only off-screen. This doesn’t really matter, though, because what we are privy to tells us everything we need to know about Lucy’s mothering style: Whole-hearted, if half-baked. (Just like me!)

In Episode 136, “Nursery School,” a nurse at the hospital where Little Ricky is getting his tonsils removed informs Lucy that she isn’t allowed to stay overnight with her son. As if! Lucy stuffs Little Ricky’s teddy bear under her coat, posing as an expectant mother, to get past the front door; once inside, she smartly snatches a nurse’s uniform. Needless to say, Little Ricky does not spend the night in his hospital room alone. Any mother – myself included – who has spent such a night “sleeping” in the pediatrics ward at her child’s bedside can relate to Lucy’s determination in this case.

True maternal grit is shown in Episode 163, “Little Ricky’s School Pageant.” Not every mother would fly across the stage of a grade school auditorium dressed as a witch to help her shy son remember his lines. Along “it takes a village” lines, Ethel, Fred and Ricky step up, too, playing a fairy princess, a frog, and a hollow tree, respectively. (If you ask me, Ricky gets off easy.)

For mothers today, one of the most relatable - almost prophetic - episodes about parenting was #157, "Little Ricky Learns to Play Drums." Long before over-scheduling kids with "enriching" activities became a trend, Lucy recognized the importance of encouraging children's interests and nurturing potential talent. Though she fantasizes about raising a future physician, Lucy is unabashedly supportive when Little Ricky decides he wants to play the drums. (Naturally, big Ricky is all for his son's career choice). In fact, both parents are so enthusiastic that they allow Little Ricky to play the same beat on his drum over and over and over again for four days straight. Eventually, everything they do is synced to Little Ricky's rhythm: Cracking eggs, scraping burnt toast, chewing. Downstairs, the Mertzes are likewise afflicted (even Ethel, trying to get Fred's attention, speaks in time: "Fred. Fred. Fred, Fred, Fred!"). Lucy and Ricky are as weary of the ceaseless beat as the rest of the building, but show appropriate parental indignation when the Mertzes complain. A fight of epic proportions ensues (and is comically resolved) but Lucy never wavers. Agonizingly repetitive as Little Ricky might be, she has no doubt her son is a musical genius.

I was reminded of this episode last night, at a restaurant where I was eating dinner with my mother, my five-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter. It was one of those miraculous evenings when my children were oddly well-behaved, quietly reading and coloring at the table as we waited for our food. Sadly, the two moms seated at the table to our left were having a very different dining experience. Their five small charges were deep in the throes of pre-bedtime hyperactivity, popping under the table, running in circles, tossing ice cream and shrieking. It was significantly distracting, but I couldn't allow myself to be annoyed, knowing that my children have similarly irritated innocent restaurant patrons despite my best efforts to quiet them down. (Anyway, the rowdy group was already on dessert well before our entrees arrived.) As they walked by on their way out, one of the moms stopped at my table. "I'm so sorry about the noise," she said. "I don't know what got into them."

"Please, don't apologize," I said. "I've been there! Didn't bother us at all."

A lie, yes. But, more precisely, an example of simple parent-to-parent etiquette based on an unspoken rule of motherhood so perfectly illustrated by Lucy's defense of her little drummer boy: We are allowed to complain about our own children's actions, but should anyone else dare to voice their displeasure...! Unleash the redheaded dragon.

My daughter was about three when she threw a huge tantrum in the middle of our walk home from the park. I've since forgotten what she was so upset about, but I do remember with perfect clarity the high decibel screams coming out of her mouth. I was trying my hardest to calm my daughter down when two older ladies walked by, one of whom pointedly shook her head and covered her ears.

That's when I threw a little tantrum of my own. Am I proud of yelling obscenities at senior citizens in front of my preschooler on a public sidewalk? No. Would I do it again? Would Lucy? Oh yeah.