Ch 3: An Old Friend Once Said, “You’ll Never Have to Worry About Divorce— You Have Too Many Kids.”

Series: The makings of a divorce. Exploring the parallels of abuse. Chapter 3

A long-ago conversation with an old friend came to my mind.

She knew me back when my husband and I had first started dating. She was also the first person to caution me about marriage and cultural differences.

Over the years, we’d lost connection. I tried calling her on a whim, not even sure if her number was still the same.

It was.

We had lots of catching up to do. At that time, I was eager to mention my marriage was going on ten years —proud we’d survived the differences. But her response was not what I was expecting.

“Well, of course you’re still married. Nobody gets divorced with as many kids as you guys have,” she said.

But it seems she was wrong.

Our nine kids always brought slews of questions back in 2016, along with well-intended jokes and stares from all corners.

It was our norm, part of the day-to-day. But with time, I’d learned to embrace it.

Perspective is everything.

I was looking forward to spending a month camping in the Florida Keys. I wasn’t sure how we’d all manage in a 14-person tent — but I was game.

Putting Scary Mary behind me, we did the final walkthrough of everyone’s bedroom and piled the last of the duffle bags at the front door.

The kids helped pack our gear in our extended SUV — with an additional fourth-row seat.

I drew the line at driving one of those twelve-passenger vans.

The morning sun had just come up, and the kids’ shoeprints overlapped one another in the fresh snow that had fallen the night before.

Back and forth from the house to the Denali, the kids all contributed in their own way.

My husband insisted the kids did household work as soon as they were able. He said it was good for them — it built a work ethic.

As a big family, it was a must.

The business took the lion’s share of his time and energy. I stayed home, a full-time job without doubt.

In those days, we were a team, working towards similar goals.

My intention and focus were to have a happy, thriving family in a stable two-parent home, something I’d never experienced. Because he grew up with his family intact, his definition of success equated to money, the major thing they had lacked.

His sole purpose became making his first million.

I continued loading and reminded one of the kids to grab the DVDs. The trip from Minnesota to Florida was long, far too long without having movies for the kids.

I felt grateful — content.

He’d made me feel safe, like everything was somehow always going to be okay.

I watched my husband secure the cargo basket on the trailer hitch as I loaded the last of the food supplies in our extra-long white cooler.

I touched the bite imprint towards the edge of the lid. We’d camped in the Boundary Waters, somewhere between Minnesota and Canada, and a baby bear had come into our camp. He tried biting his way to the food inside the cooler but eventually gave up.

My husband loaded the cooler on the carrier and double-secured it with bungee cords.

Sometimes I’m amazed at how life unfolds. I’m in awe at the wonder of it all.

How did the two of us ever find each other?

At sixteen, he’d crossed the border, betting on the unknown. He came with nothing but a desire to achieve glittered riches — tackling the endless opportunities of America.

He followed the footsteps of his older brothers, leaving his mother and father behind.

My future husband was unable to stay in his small town in the middle of nowhere any longer. The lure of becoming a self-sufficient man was far too strong to keep him idly waiting for anyone’s permission.

He worked all sorts of construction, anything to earn money.

He never got involved with drinking or drugs — his goals wouldn’t allow for that. Eighty-hour work weeks became normal. Little by little, he learned English, though not an easy task.

Once he realized the need to assimilate, he began his climb. Six years later, America started to feel like home.

In thirty hours, we’d be in the Keys, trekking from twenty below to eighty-five degrees, the frozen icicles dangling from our car already melting in my mind.

I’ve always felt I was born in the wrong state. Sure, Minnesota can be charming: the city, country, scenic nature paths, beautiful trees, and lakes abound.

My main challenge is how winter overstays its welcome — every single year.

I enjoy snow around the holidays, but that’s about it. I’ve dabbled in ice skating, tobogganing, snowmobiling, hiking, and skiing.

I’ve tried befriending winter; it’s just never been my thing.

The truth is, I’ve always felt at home in the warmth, surrounded by the ocean. It’s somehow comfortably familiar, like my favorite snuggly sweater I wear season after season.

I’m a yogi at heart. I gravitate towards a peaceful existence.

I live my life congruent to how I imagine a tropical bird might feel being caged in the Arctic, somehow always knowing something different was out there.

My husband finished the last details, checking tires, car seats, and scraping the windows once more.

If possible, I’d have been smiling on the inside; I could hardly wait to leave this icebox.

Backing out of the driveway, I waited for him to make the sign of the cross, with a finalizing kiss to his fingers. Before any of our travel adventures, he’d always ask God to let us have a safe trip — a remnant from his Catholic upbringing.

But he didn’t this time.

“Papi, can we play The Lego Movie?” A tiny voice asked from the backseat. I’d gotten the DVD a few days back and surprised them with it that morning.

“No, he answered. We just started our trip. When I was your age, I didn’t have movies to entertain me. I learned by watching things and asking myself how they worked.”

He took a deep breath through his nose and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know why you brought movies. They don’t need them.” He gave me a quick, stern glance.

I didn’t answer. We’d had this conversation far too many times.

“Mommy, can we watch the movie, please, please, please?”

And so, we began.

Distracting the kids, I played the ABC game with them, finding letters on signs and license plates.

Soon enough, the kids were laughing and joking and took out their Pokémon cards.

I looked over at my husband, his eyes focused on the road. He’d always been our fervent protector — ever watchful of anything that could possibly bring harm to his family.

But something seemed off.

When we first met, I had no interest in dating him. Instead, I wanted friendship and help with learning Spanish.

He was the exact opposite of my type.

He was tall and handsome in a rugged way, with dark wavy hair pulled back in a short ponytail.

And then, of course, there was the accent. He could pretty much have his pick, which screamed player to me from all directions.

Thanks, but no thanks. I’d met enough of those types and knew to stay far, far away.

Time revealed his character, though; he was consistent with his word, had much respect for his mother, and had more integrity than I’d ever seen.

I resisted for a long time. Which, looking back, was probably part of the appeal on his side.

He wasn’t used to being told no.

Eventually, he won me over. He was dependable, smart, and driven — qualities at the top of my list. We became inseparable, as young love often goes.

When I became pregnant, everything fell in line.

He said he didn’t want his daughter meeting him with long hair, so he cut it off. He quit driving his mini red sports car and became an instantaneous family man.

Too young and naïve to realize how vastly different our cultures were — we thought love would take care of the details.

My family liked him and accepted him completely. He was responsible and hard-working. The exact opposite of my stepfather, Butch.

Though, looking back, my friends and his family weren’t so easily convinced.

It was as though they could predict the cultural clashes before it was even a glimmer in our eyes.

Cooking wasn’t a priority growing up. Though once we married, I submerged myself into understanding the Mexican culture — its language, rituals, and food.

My husband often reminisced about missing the old days: his mother’s salsa, mole, enchiladas, and so on. And, of course, I wanted to take away his longings.

I devoured an endless array of cookbooks — anything I could get my hands on. I learned all his favorites. It was important to him that his kids ate the same foods he loved from his childhood.

He didn’t want them raised the American way.

I grew up in a time and place where beans were not cool. Jokes aside, the closest thing I’d ever had to beans was a can of baked beans — maybe once or twice.

But a simmering pot of pinto beans on the stovetop soon became a staple in our home. I roasted chiles and learned all the different salsas. I made fresh corn and flour tortillas.

We all grew to love and appreciate the simplicity of the humble bean.

With time, I mastered the northern Mexican cuisine — the entire range — tamales, pozole, enchiladas, and gorditas were a favorite few.

I was fluent in Spanish by then, so I taught the kids what I knew. I immersed them in their culture as much as I could.

Juan Gabriel, Jon Sebastian, or Los Bukis were always playing in the background, singing their heartfelt songs.

“You look lost in thought. Grab me a taco?” my husband asked.

His words brought me back to the steady rhythm of kids talking.

“Mommy, can we watch Lego Movie, please?” A sweet, sugar-coated voice came from the fourth row.

“Hold on, guys,” I answered.

I reached into the cooler and handed my husband a taco. That morning, I’d used the indoor grill to make rice and bean tacos. I filled them with fresh onions, cilantro, and a red chile salsa that could bring tears to anyone’s eyes.

Food was not enjoyable to my husband unless his mouth was on fire.

I’d mashed some potatoes for the kids, mixed them with a mild red chile sauce, and filled up the corn tortillas.

I turned around and asked, “Who’s hungry?

“Is it spicy?” Two of our sons asked in a quiet voice.

“No, I made you guys grilled potato tacos,” I said, giving them a quick smile.

My husband took a fast look at me with narrowed eyes. “Why’d you make different food for them?” He gave a quick disgusted snort, shaking his head back and forth.

“Can we please not do this?” I rubbed my neck, trying to loosen the tension.

“Real men eat hot food. If you don’t give them the option, they’ll learn. But instead, you’re babying them,” he said.

Instead of answering, I looked out the window, biting my lips. I knew where this was going. Our cultural differences seemed more of a thing with each passing day.

“How many times….”

Our oldest daughter interrupted.

“Mom, can I try one of the spicy bean tacos? Please?”