Modern Family

Truth Thursday

Being a product of the 1970s, I can sing the theme songs to any number of mind-numbing, puerile television shows, as can most Americans who are around my age.  

Gilligan’s Island. Green Acres. Petticoat Junction. Family Affair. F Troop. H.R. Pufnstuf. The Addams Family. Even The Patty Duke Show. (and I worry about how much TV my kids watch?!)

And then there was the mother of them all ... The Brady Bunch. 

When I was 10, I lived for the Brady Bunch. I wanted to be the Brady Bunch. I had a profound crush on Peter, knowing that most other girls were in love with Greg, so perhaps I had a chance. I sighed with Marcia, cried with Jan, and wished I had corkscrew curls like Cindy. I never quite understood the little flips in Carol’s hair, or why, as a stay-at-home mom, she needed a full-time housekeeper (although I have a better idea today what it must have been like to care for six children. And Tiger. Maybe there was valium in that medicine cabinet after all.) 

I dreamed about having a groovy California staircase with no risers and a dad who would wear bell bottoms. And having two parents who would sit down with me whenever I had even the slightest problem in school. 

Oh, the Brady Bunch. The way a family was supposed to be. 

In my house, not so much. 

Our stairs were century old New York brownstone stairs, with ancient linoleum coming up at the seams. There was no housekeeper – my two working parents took care of the house and the meals most of the time, except for the cleaning ladies who came maybe once a month. Sam the butcher didn’t stop by with the meat delivery – if there was going to be meat for dinner, it was because one of my parents remembered to stop at Vinny’s meat market on the way home from the subway. 

And as for having long, meaningful conversations with either of my parents about my day at school, well, that rarely happened because once we were all done eating dinner, it was time for nighttime TV. 

This is in no way meant to denigrate my parents, both of whom worked hard and did what they needed to do (and ultimately divorced, something Carol and Mike would never have done.) Rather, it’s a reminder that the stories I was being spoon fed on television rarely matched up with my reality at home (or at anyone’s home, as I was to learn later.) And that made for some dissonance and confusion. For a long time I thought that everyone else lived like the Bradys, and that we were somehow strange. 

Fast forward to today. I am raising my children in a house with two working parents. There is still no live-in housekeeper, and no butcher making house calls. My three kids are responsible for cleaning the house every other week, and I try to keep on top of their homework by making sure they do it. Controlled chaos is the order of the day most days. 

As for having the time to sit down and have wise and worldly conversations with each of my children, well, that comes in between cooking dinner, running out to the office supply store to get the poster board we forgot for the science project, and basketball, soccer and baseball practices. 

But every Wednesday, my little modern family flaunts the convention of the day and turns the knobs back to the kind of family time I remember from my own childhood. Instead of watching their own shows on their computers (or plugging into their iPods,) we gather around the TV like it’s 1975 and watch “Modern Family” together. It's appointment television. 

And we roar. 

Instead of Carol Brady baking brownies and worrying about her children’s lives, we watch Claire and Phil Dunphy competing with and undermining each other left and right. We watch their three kids, who can’t believe they have to live in that house, as well as Claire's brother Mitchell and his husband Cam, and their adopted daughter Lily and their believable gay household. We laugh at Jay and Gloria and Gloria’s son, Manny, living a life of privilege and yet somehow, Columbian-born Gloria, with her deep sense of justice and wacky shenanigans, is always reminding us of Lucy Ricardo. And we appreciate the fact that no matter how ridiculous the week’s escapade is, the family winds up coming together in the end.

It’s all a little subversive, and quite hysterical. And while my family doesn’t necessarily see themselves reflected exactly in the characters, they understand the basic message: that families are all a little crazy, and all a little dysfunctional. And that people are human and make mistakes. And that in the end, all we have is love to carry us through. 

And family.

I love that we have this one show that we watch together – and that it’s a more realistic portrayal of American family life today than the shows I watched as a kid, despite its over-the-topness. 

And I love that we have this one family that is ours, no matter how out of tune we might be. I love that my teenager, when hanging out with his mom and his aunt and his cousins and his brother and his sister last weekend, said, “Yeah, I think we’ll all be friends when we grow up.” 

It’s the story …

 

 

Dedicated to my husband, the ultimate Gilligan.

photo by flashbacks.com via Flickr 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Jonathan, the "dedicated" husband]

"The mate was a mighty sailing man..."

Thanks for the dedication!

[Emily Kuvin]

I love this! We all sit together to watch Modern Family too -- it's really the only show I watch and certainly the only one we all watch together. And I loved The Brady Bunch (Peter was my favorite too) and Gilligan's Island! Thanks for this, Karen.