Parenting
It turns out that Mary had to get braces. The oldest of the Hartman kids was all set for the upcoming dance. But then, in a twist of fate, disaster struck. Thankfully, everything was resolved in the end, as it always seems to be in our household. Our children were instantly captivated by the unfolding drama, immersing themselves in the storyline as if it were their own lives.
We live in a space that feels too small to contain the boisterous energy of our two boys, ages 9 and 10, and far too chaotic to maintain any sense of order. Our two daughters, both 8, are the quiet ones—perfectly reasonable and fair, at least for now. They pick out their outfits and cheerfully take baths when asked, unlike the boys, who erupt into mayhem reminiscent of a scene from a frantic movie as they vie for the shower.
Our home can sometimes resemble a lively circus, bursting with noise and demands. I find myself trailing behind, gathering up toys, socks, crumpled papers, and random bits of mess. Like a pack mule, I provide for them while collecting the remnants they leave behind. I attempt to sort everything into bins, which offer only a fleeting sense of organization. As I lose faith in these bins, I face the exhausting trek to Ikea for replacements, a journey that saps my spirit. We constantly look for systems to tame the chaos that accumulates around us—crumbs that are often much more than mere crumbs, like the petrified remnants of a snack. What’s this? A long-forgotten bite of a Yogurt Burst Cheerio? It’s practically a fossil!
There are ways to keep the kids in check when we need to prepare the endless snacks they demand, cook meals for them, or even find a moment for ourselves as a couple. We have books, endless art supplies, and sports equipment. The boys would point to the Wii as their primary distraction. I dislike video games for the way they affect my 10-year-old’s concentration and energy. My son believes I’m stuck in the past and missing out on the joys of life. Meanwhile, my husband’s son, a fervent gamer, views my stance as archaic. He looks at me as if I belong in a museum exhibit, while I plead with them, “One day, you’ll see this as a quirky part of my charm.” They just roll their eyes, fully united in their critique of my outdated ways.
As I navigated the daily turmoil of raising two assertive boys who are growing in both intellect and mischief, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own childhood and the ways my life had changed—divorce, new love, and the responsibility of four little ones. This led me back to the comforting realm of classic TV, and I felt a wave of nostalgia for the Brady Bunch. I wished I had the ability to show my kids just how much it meant to me.
A complete boxed set arrived at our door soon after, and it quickly became a family favorite. The Bradys, with their unbreakable bond, managed to resolve everything. Mike and Carol, along with their kids—Greg, Marcia, Jan, Peter, Bobby, and Cindy—always seemed to have the answers. And let’s be honest, Alice was the real hero. That house of theirs? It was a magical place that stuck with me. I longed for their sunny backyard and the delight of a double bathroom, which seemed both civilized and adventurous.
Watching reruns now, I recall the pangs of sadness I felt as a kid—grappling with the reality of my parents’ divorce and the complexities that came with growing up. Yet, the show offered solace, portraying a world where everything was okay. My daughters often declare, “I’m Marcia,” or “No, I’m her,” which amazes me. They find themselves alternating crushes on the brothers based on silly things like haircuts or voices, and it fills me with joy. The boys keep their favorite Brady preferences secret, but their expressions reveal their delight.
We own the entire series, beautifully packaged in a lime green box reminiscent of that iconic shag carpet. They can’t wait for specific episodes, and they squeal with excitement when I mention the legendary Hawaiian tiki episode. They often wish Alice lived with us, believing life would be much brighter if she did. They ask endless questions about how Mike and Carol met and about their past lives—mysteries that only add to the allure of the show.
The Brady Bunch ignited something in me as a child. I adored that their family was uniquely formed, hinting at struggles in the past but ultimately presenting a happy, safe existence in the present. I see my kids absorbing these lessons, occasionally noting that the show is from a different time. As they huddle together on our couch, wrapped in a too-small blanket, I can see them connecting with the themes of humor, sibling loyalty, and the desire for a nurturing household. Everything can be alright. Everything will be alright. I’m uncertain if it’s the Bradys’ story or the one I tell myself, but either way, it feels comforting.
I understand why they adore the show, just as I did years ago. Were it not for the fear of breaking their serene moment, I would tell them, “Look at our family! We’ve faced our own challenges, but here we are—two boys, two girls, and two parents, all imperfect yet deeply connected. We are still becoming.”
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