Nine Ms and a Mother Like No Other

PREFACE Every family has a story to tell, and mine is no exception. No, we Bednars aren’t Kennedy famous, and we’re certainly not Rockefeller rich. We don’t sing like the Osmonds, dance like the Jacksons, or even star in our own reality TV show like the Osbournes once did. In fact, our talents have never won any of us an Oscar, a Pulitzer, a Nobel Peace Prize, or heck, even a Rotary Club award, and our scandals – thank God – have never caused the paparazzi to hide in the bushes and pounce as soon as we step out the front door. Look closely at my family today and you’d be hard pressed to believe for a New York minute that behind our starched collars, shiny Nissans, and manicured lawns that we could possibly have any story worth telling at all. That’s why most people will find it hard to believe that the story they’re about to read could possibly be true – especially if they’ve come to know me or anyone in my family in more recent (what I’ll call the more “normal”) years. But truth, they say, is stranger than fiction, and the journey you’re about to embark on down Bednar Boulevard is proof of that. So what is so noteworthy about this family of mine? I assure you, it’s not just the novelty that we could literally be our own baseball team – yes, there are nine of us kids – or that our names all begin with the letter “M.” (But that adds a nice layer of icing to the cake, I must say.) Can there really be smoldering secrets, over-the-top escapades, or salacious storylines about the path to adulthood that molded common, everyday people: school teachers, business folk, a PR guy, and, heck, even a priest?! (Surely, not enough to possibly warrant writing a whole book, right?!) Can a buttoned-down family as seemingly all-American as the Cleavers or the Brady’s – a close-knit clan who, as adults, actually look forward to family get-togethers, frequently call each other just to say “hi,” and even attend weekly Mass by their own choosing (well, most of the time) – have anything other than a bunch of warm fuzzies to share? Ironically, it’s precisely because we now do share “warm fuzzies” with each other – and the fact that we are a “normal” (as normal as any person or family can be, I guess), well-adjusted, self-assured, pretty likeable, relatively successful, and fairly sane bunch of siblings – that the Bednar story is one well worth telling. Indeed, our chirpy little attitudes, successes, and lives (as traditional, suburban, and mundane as they now appear on the outside) were molded out of an absurd assortment of bizarre, against-the-odds, and downright unbelievable circumstances that few individuals or families could – or do – survive. Yet miraculously, the Bednars not only survived. We thrived.