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My 9-year-old was ready to spend his screen time. But you know that feeling, stumbling around to find quality television for an elementary schooler?

In a blast from my ‘80s past, I delighted to find The Cosby Show on Amazon. (I mean, sort of. Now there’s this niggling in my mind, as if I missed something in those eight years of regular Thursday nights, my chin propped on my palms as I lay on the shag carpet.) In a few minutes, I could hear my son giggling from the next room. “Mom! You’ve gotta come see this part!” We chuckled together over Theo and Rudy, and over Dr. Huxtable imitating a woman in labor.

My son’s enthrallment was only three weeks before Mr. Cosby was led somberly in handcuffs from a Pennsylvania courthouse, prison-bound following his conviction of sexual assault. Like so many, I groaned at the disparity: Perfect, hilarious TV family. Lurid, devastating real life.

It’s fairly easy to chuck stones at this man who’s tumbled from such a shocking height, at this man who caused America’s families to laugh weekly for nearly a decade. He advocated winsomely—far beyond the camera—for the advancement of African-Americans.

But perhaps we could all find pause, including those of us snuggled in near-picture-perfect families.

What if what we choose to put “on camera,” performing for the world, isn’t the real us at all?

I’m thinking out loud about Bill Cosby and our secret selves in an article over at FamilyLife.com. Want to hop over and check it out?

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