Updated: Dec. 26, 2015
Originally Published: Jan. 20, 2015
It turns out that the eldest daughter, Lily, needed braces. She had a date for the school dance, and everything was set. But, of course, disaster struck. In true family fashion, everything eventually fell back into place. The kids quickly became enamored with the show, fully engrossed in the unfolding drama, leaving us, the parents, in disbelief.
Our family of six resides in a “house” that feels too cramped to contain the boundless energy of the boys, now aged 9 and 10, and too haphazardly arranged to maintain any lasting order. Meanwhile, our two 8-year-old girls are the epitome of calm. They rarely make a fuss and, although I recognize the danger of gender stereotypes, they seem near-perfect. In this fleeting moment, they are kind, reasonable, and cooperative, choosing their outfits and happily taking baths when requested—unlike the boys, whose resistance often turns the bathroom into a chaotic scene reminiscent of a gritty movie unfolding nightly in our cramped shower.
At times, our home resembles a lively circus—a whirlwind of noise and demands. I navigate through the chaos, collecting toys, socks, crumpled papers, tissues, and books, like a caretaker managing a herd. I try to sort and store everything in bins, which provide a false sense of organization. However, the futility of this endeavor often results in exhausting trips to the store for new bins, leading to a figurative soul-crushing experience. We work hard to establish some semblance of order amidst the chaos and the crumbs that accumulate around furniture. Some of those crumbs are practically meal remnants, like a desiccated Yogurt Burst Cheerio that I find myself scraping off the tile with a credit card.
There are strategies to keep the kids occupied, methods to make them sit still while we prepare 20 different snacks each day and plan our next family activity (always for their benefit). We have books, endless craft supplies, sports equipment, a pottery wheel, a basketball hoop, movies, treats, and even some bribes. The boys, of course, would argue that their beloved video game console, The Wii, is also a source of entertainment. I have a strong aversion to video games and the impact they have on young minds, leading me to limit their use whenever possible. My son thinks I’m hopelessly outdated, while my husband’s child, a staunch gaming enthusiast, finds my stance utterly comical, as if I belong to some bygone era. I plead with them—someday, you’ll see the value in these limitations. They simply exchange knowing glances, enjoying their collective judgment of my outdated sensibilities.
My thoughts raced: Was our family really experiencing this? Negotiating screen time with two stubborn boys who are both navigating their budding reasoning skills and their, shall we say, less-than-graceful habits? This was the conversation every parent was having, but I thought I’d be immune due to my old-school vibe. “Hey, little tyrants: Do you even see our landline on the side table? With a voicemail in Spanish because I can’t figure out how to change it?” I worry about earbuds (tinnitus), touch screens (digital maladies), and other factors that could lead us to a sad demise. Why did I find it so challenging to make them understand my perspective? Perhaps it’s their fascination with burping contests and their newfound habit of referring to body parts in a less-than-conventional way. Realizing the gap between our viewpoints didn’t help. Didn’t they see that I envisioned us as a more intriguing family than this? Clearly, they did not. And perhaps we weren’t.
Reflecting on what captivated my attention as a child, especially considering my tumultuous journey through a difficult divorce and a newfound love while raising four children, I found myself drawn to the Brady Bunch. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for my younger self, unaware that my adult life would mirror the blended family dynamics of the Bradys, and oddly, I found comfort in that parallel. A collection of the series arrived at our doorstep within a week, instantly captivating all four of my children. The Bradys made everything right. Mike and Carol navigated the challenges, while Greg, Marcia, Jan, Peter, Bobby, and Cindy each contributed to the happy chaos. And let’s not forget Alice—who seemed to solve every problem and was a veritable superhero of home management. I still remember the layout of their iconic house, the cozy rooms, the sunny patio, and that coveted Jack-and-Jill bathroom! As a child, I longed for such a setup—so civilized yet so thrilling. Would you lock the doors every time? Maybe you’d take a risk! Each trip to the bathroom could be an adventure.
I spent countless hours enthralled by the Brady family’s unique blend of domesticity. I recall feeling pangs of sadness while watching the show back then, grappling with the anger stemming from my parents’ divorce. I was transforming into the person I would ultimately become—more complex, more sensitive, and more aware of life’s potential pitfalls. Watching those endless episodes, filled with moments of sibling camaraderie, provided a sense of comfort. I’m reminded of my own childhood dreams when my daughters repeatedly declare, “I’m Marcia,” followed by, “No, I’m her!” Their imaginative play fills me with pride as they navigate crushes on the brothers based on shifting criteria—voice changes, hairstyles, braces. They express surprisingly deep thoughts like, “I wish Bobby were my brother. I want to marry him.” They value humor, too; the funniest brother wins their affection, which makes me smile. The boys, meanwhile, would never admit their favorite Brady, but their blissful expressions tell a different story—much like their expressions while playing video games, but somehow more innocent.
We’ve accumulated the entire series (it became clear that we needed the complete collection after they devoured episodes like they were binge-watching a thrilling series). It comes packaged in a lively lime-green box reminiscent of shag carpeting. The episode summaries spark their excitement, especially the Hawaiian tiki episode, which features a giant tarantula! They squeal with delight, wishing for an Alice of their own—our lives would undoubtedly improve if she were here. They ask questions about Mike and Carol’s backstory, about how they met, and about their past marriages. Mike’s first wife is a mystery—did she pass away? And what about Carol’s history? Is there a story there?
It’s easy to see how the show inspired my aspirations. I longed for the kind of family that was uniquely blended. Although there were hints of past struggles, they felt distant, leaving only a sense of happiness and security in the present. I see my children absorbing these lessons as they watch. Only a few times have they mentioned the series being from another era. I watch them huddled together on our couch, little legs intertwined under an oversized blanket, as they let the reflections of this fictional family wash over them. In a narrative filled with casual references to life’s complexities—like tranquilizers, dating, and the absurdity of nine people crammed into a station wagon without seatbelts (including Alice, mind you)—I see my kids picking out the meaningful moments. The humor, the sibling rivalry, and the desire to create a safe home environment resonate with them. Everything can be okay. Everything will be okay. I’m not sure if it’s the story of the Bradys or the one I tell myself, but it’s a comforting narrative.
I understand why they love it, and it’s for the same reasons that captivated me three decades ago. If I weren’t worried about interrupting their blissful state of shared happiness, I would tell them, “Look at our family—we have many ‘befores.’ We’ve faced challenges and hardships, some of which are not as shiny as the Brady story. But here we are, in our cozy, chaotic home, two boys, two girls, and two parents—each with our scars, yet filled with love. We are, like the Bradys, still in the process of becoming.”
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