We got home late but it wasn’t a school night so the children wanted to watch The Brady Bunch. Season 1 was a Christmas gift, one that follows last year’s main DVD take of The Flintstones.
We have no television in our Ugandan home, so DVDs — some of which you can find here on the streets for about two dollars (think shaky over-the-shoulder jobs shot in Malaysian theatres) — take on a greater role.
The Pixar stories are particularly well done, and I have little problem letting the kids fall into these stories that explore things like friendship and forgiveness alongside those very savvy graphics.
But I had forgotten about The Brady Bunch and how, for some kids, it can be so addictive. I once had a friend, in fact, who, when she was younger, needed counselling to clear her head of the notion that real life is supposed to be like life is for Jan and Marcia and Greg and the whole gang.
So when we got home we allowed the kids to watch an episode, one that ended with everyone – mom and dad and their brew of six – snuggled and laughing and loving the moment in a way that obviously had my children feeling like they’d had a little night-cap before toddling off to sleep.
Is it real life? No. But when you’re a kid living in Africa, you see enough that too.