Ch 5: After 30 Hours on the Road With Our 9 Kids, We Were Ready to Pitch Our Tent in the Florida Keys

Series: The makings of a divorce. Exploring the parallels of abuse. Chapter 5

“Mom, can we go to Universal?” my 13-year-old son asked.

He was a younger-looking version of his father, though always with a book in hand. My husband often asked what it felt like having kids that didn’t resemble me in appearance or color.

People often commented on our kids’ looks. My East-West European heredity, along with his Mexican and Italian heritage, was a striking combination.

I told him he was ridiculous — there was a resemblance. Inwardly I added, even if it were just their mannerisms.

Turning around, they all smiled at me, attempting innocence in hopes of persuading us to visit Orlando. I glanced at my husband, and he raised his eyebrows with a slight smile.

“We’ll see how everything goes, maybe near the end of our stay,” I answered.

“Can we can get a wand and Butterbeer from Harry Potter’s World?” they all chimed in.

Thirty hours into a road trip that could almost rival Griswold’s family vacation, we arrived in the Keys. We were staying at a campground, right off the ocean.

They hosted a smorgasbord of campers. All of us there for our own reasons — yet we shared the commonality of relaxation and fun. Activities were plentiful; a pool, hot tub, billiards, bar, live music, paddle boats, fishing, everything within reach.

Immersing ourselves in the sun’s warmth, the ocean breeze felt warm and moist. Swaying palm trees circulated a soft wind throughout the campground — I smelled hot dogs and burgers on the grill.

I heard the band practicing Rupert Holmes’ Escape (The Piña Colada song) somewhere near the dance floor. They were prepping for the evening’s event.

Netted hammocks were scattered about. Rhythmic waves became background noise, calling for lazy days.

I felt immediate calm.

The boys began setting up our 14-person tent while I started food prep. I needed to roast poblanos, chop onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini for fajitas.

Digging through the cooking bin, I searched for my favorite knife. And then I heard someone’s footsteps coming up behind me.

“Hello? Hi there, I’m Jen. I have to ask — are you guys homeschoolers?”

The woman was petite and pretty. She had long curly dark hair and a Bronx accent. She smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth — a distinct contrast to her bronze complexion.

“Hi. Yes, we’re homeschoolers,” I smiled shyly.

I inwardly braced for the next round of questions.

“Oh my gosh, I saw all your kids and had to come over. We’re right over here, she pointed, behind you guys.”

I glimpsed to where she was pointing and saw two kids playing Uno at the picnic table.

“So nice to meet you,” I said.

“I have four kids, and we’re homeschoolers too!” How long are you staying? We’ll be here another three months. Come over and meet my kids as soon as you get the chance. Tonight, we’re searching for crabs with our flashlights. Do you guys want to come?” Jen asked.

I let my guard relax. Instead of judgment from her, I felt acceptance, a rare thing for a first encounter.

Our connection was instantaneous.

Jen knew most everyone throughout the campground. There was never a shortage of friends coming to sit around the fire that kindled late most nights.

My husband provided an abundance of scary ghost stories— beliefs he’d acquired as a child.

Real-life witches that flew high in the trees on moonlit nights. Owls that screeched the sure prediction of three consecutive deaths. His grandfather’s return from the dead to visit his grandmother — grabbing her leg to wake her from a deep sleep.

Most everyone from his town believed it was haunted.

The kids begged for more — they couldn’t get enough. Once they went to bed, we adults would philosophize about life, almost everything up for grabs. The talks were endless, though eventually the fire burned low, and everyone went to their beds.

Most nights, Jen and I stayed talking, always the last to turn in for the night.

A few weeks into our vacation, Jen and I fell into a shared unschooling routine. During the day, we brought our kids to museums, unique restaurants, and beaches. Jen orchestrated scavenger hunts, games, and picnics. We played volleyball, Badminton, and had long pool days.

It was amazing to have someone planning the fun.

Jen was our tour guide — she knew all about marine biology and the Keyes. Married before she had a chance to put her degree to use, they settled in the Midwest.

Much like me, Jen flourished in a tropical climate. She was fulfilled being a mother and felt no regret for her choices — there was no greater achievement than her children. Though, her marriage and future were unknown.

On one of those laid-back days, Jen and I took her van into town.

She’d bought it used, money well spent from her stashed-away divorce fund. It was a portion of the money she’d been tucking away over the last few years — just in case. She hadn’t wanted to touch anything, but said these getaways helped keep her sanity.

It was a camping van with a tiny kitchenette, bed, and shelves — overstuffed with books and every board game imaginable.

“Let’s get a few bottles of wine for tonight,” Jen said.

“Sure, sounds great,” I answered. I contemplated picking up some wine glasses but thought better. Plastic was fine.

The store’s automatic doors opened, and the air conditioner gushed cold air. It was a welcomed relief. The heat was intense when we strayed too far from the ocean breeze.

I saw a pregnant woman sprawled on the bench inside.

She sat with her hands loosely on her big belly, head leaning back on the wall. Either she was carrying twins or was a month overdue. I’d felt her exhaustion before — I knew it well.

I made eye contact with her and smiled.

It was then I realized I was more than a few weeks late.

“I want to make your family my famous Italian hoagies today. It’s authentic — our family tradition,” Jen beamed, her eyes lighting up.

I wasn’t strict in terms of letting the kids eat what they wanted when we were out and about. “Sure, they’d love that. I’ll use hummus and avocado on mine instead.”

“I’ll never understand how you eat that way in a million years. Life would be so bland,” she teased.

Our cart was jam-packed full of sandwich fillings and treats. She grabbed some chocolate and marshmallows for smores as we headed to the checkout.

“Well. It sure looks like you girls found everything,” the cashier proclaimed, bobbing her head up and down with a big grin.

Jen laughed, “I know! We’re feeding an army. Guess how many kids we have between us?”

My mind was relentless — intent on grasping the possibilities of another pregnancy.

Another baby would make ten. It was a lot to consider. Though, I hadn’t envisioned having nine either, and each addition was a blessing. The joyful chaos brought contentment in ways I’d never imagined.

But we’d decided a few years back we were done. And I’d been so careful. I used multiple forms of natural birth control methods — could I possibly be? I touched my stomach, considering what it might mean.

Whenever people asked why I didn’t use conventional forms of birth control, my go-to answer was always because they never worked well with my body. And it was true. The ones I tried had side effects I wasn’t willing to tolerate.

But mostly because I had started leaning towards living more naturally throughout the years. It trickled into all areas of my life— products, healing, food, and raising children. I live with a focus on prevention; it resonates most with me.

The cashier poked fun about one thing or another, and Jen’s elated laughter drew attention from those around us. The lady in the next aisle over joined in the conversation, along with the kid bagging groceries.

Jen had an infectious laugh, the kind that made everyone want to join in. Although tiny in build, her boisterous personality made her stand out among the crowd.

“Ready, lady? Let’s go feed our hungry tribe,” Jen said.

Laughing, we started towards the exit, but I stopped.

“Hold on just a minute; I need to use the restroom.”

My friends back home teased me about keeping pregnancy tests in the inside zipper of my purse. The same way some people kept gum, I always had a spare — just in case. It was a habit I’d taken on over the years — one that was ingrained.

The term Fertile Myrtle was no stranger to me.

I was adamant from the beginning I’d never be barefoot, pregnant, and stuck in the kitchen. Though time and each pregnancy changed my outlook. I wasn’t stuck. It was a beautiful choice and privilege to stay home.

And I’ve never regretted becoming a stay-at-home mom to raise my babies.

But, as with all choices, there’s a give and take.

Twenty-some years of either being pregnant or nursing had taken its toll. I wanted to enjoy the little things with them. Hikes in the northern woods, swimming, biking, sliding, and skiing. Things that were tough when pregnant or with a little one.

I wanted to explore things, new and old — train for a marathon, triathalon, and write.

Additionally, pregnancy and babies always altered the day-to-day.

Morning sickness, exhaustion, new routines, and the seemingly never-ending sleepless nights.

And, I never wanted my kids to lack for attention. But having nine children makes it tough. My husband was always away working, and I‘m only one person. Pregnancy — having a new baby, meant even less of me for them.

But then there’s the other side.

Having a baby is such a precious gift. The sweet love and connection are like nothing else. I’ve always loved babies. It was a difficult realization when I knew our last baby was my last.

I had the creeping feeling I was pregnant. I found my way to the Publix bathroom and took the test. I was excited and nervous at the same time.

Not even a minute later, two lines appeared.

I came out of the bathroom expressionless, though I’m certain my face was two shades lighter.

I reassured myself we’d be okay. And I’d do everything in my power to make this work.

I would embrace this beautiful gift with everything I had— the rest would fall into place.

Hungry kids were waiting when we arrived back at the campground, eager to help unload the groceries. I offered to give Jen a hand with the hoagies, but she wouldn’t let me. She said to enjoy the break and let someone take care of me for once.

So, I asked my husband if he wanted to go for a walk. I wasn’t sure how he’d respond, but I wanted to share the news.

The campground was quiet and still during the day. Adults and kids were in town, at the pool, reading books, or lounging.

I looked at him and smiled, “I have something to tell you.”

To be continued…