Ch 1: “Wait — What? How Many Kids Do You Have?”

Series: The makings of a divorce. Exploring the parallels of abuse. Chapter 1

My husband and I never sat down to plan out how many kids we’d have.

He’d come from a large family. And the connection and stories from his childhood spoke to me, filling a longing in my heart.

We loved and embraced our increasing family size, finding joy with each new addition.

But I’d never considered how difficult it might be for our troop to blend into day-to-day American society.

Going to the store, gym, movies, even a restaurant always brought much attention. Of course, the kids needed to be on their best behavior as there was always someone watching.

We cherished our big family — there was never a dull moment. But with a crowd our size, we always stood out. Regardless, we loved having adventures.

For fun, we’d often go camping in our RV.

One of our particular trips stands out — the night my husband had come home with a surprise.

I sank into bed and pulled up the covers.

I’d made tamales, an already lengthy process — but today, I had tripled the batch. It was nice to have extra as they worked well for my husband’s lunch.

My eyes were heavy. It didn’t take long before I started to drift off.

I woke to my husband’s voice. “What if we go camping?”

“What? Where?”

“The Keys.”

My eyes were wide, energy restored.

“Okay! When?” I asked.

“Not tomorrow, but the next morning.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know, maybe a month.”

We never planned our trips— they unfolded suddenly in random ways. My husband wasn’t a planner. When his mood struck, we’d be gone within a day or two.

I love spontaneity, but with a large family, it was tough.

I called the following day to book an RV site. But I soon found that people booked the sites in advance. The campground was right off the ocean; of course that made sense.

But they did have tent sites.

I packed for us all and made the arrangements. So many things to do — bills, haircuts, finding summer clothes. House cleaning and freezing any extra food from the refrigerator.

We still needed a tent. Next on the list was the camping store.

The grey-haired cashier had a Cabela’s nameplate that read Mary, though Scary Mary was more fitting if you asked me.

At 5’9, not many women towered over me, but her overbearing presence came from more than her surpassing height. Built solid, Mary was a meat and potatoes, no-nonsense kind of gal.

Her efficient military haircut made this northern girl somehow know to call her ma’am.

Her reading glasses halfway down her nose, she peered over them like mean old Ms. Stread, the dreaded teacher everyone hoped to avoid in 5th grade.

My husband set the 14-person tent down on the register with a thud. Mary pinched her lips as she struggled to find the barcode. My husband turned it over, though I sensed this bothered her.

Mary’s eyebrows rose as she took in all the items in our carts, one by one.

Pretending not to notice, I unloaded the cast iron pan. It was big and heavy — perfect for Potatoes O’ Brien over the fire. Next came sleeping bags, camping chairs, fishing poles, a lantern — a seemingly endless mountain of supplies.

“Looks like you guys are going camping,” Mary stated.

I could tell she wasn’t a person for much excitement, so I toned down my smile and enthusiasm.

“Yes, we leave in the morning. There’s still so much to do. It’s going to be a late night.”

“Where you guys going?” She asked, rescanning the bug spray for the beep.

“Sugarloaf Key, in Florida.”

She raised her left eyebrow, “It seems like a whole lotta stuff just for a camping trip.”

Itstarted feeling like a cross-exam. I knew she wanted answers and wasn’t going to quit until good and satisfied.

“We’re staying four weeks and have a large family. My husband has winters off, so we’re taking advantage of it,” I answered matter-of-factly.

Mary’s expression was stoic. I couldn’t decide whether she agreed it was a great idea or the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

I’d wanted to add that I was relieved to finally be getting out of this Godforsaken tundra, happy never to return, but thought she might take offense.

“Hmm, how many kids?” Her glasses slid further down her nose.

“Nine.”

“You don’t look like you could have nine children. Are they all yours? All by yourself? Any twins?” Her eyes narrowed, skeptical.

Iknew the drill. I could predict the questions before they were asked. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but I somehow felt I had to defend my choices.

I knew people thought I was crazy. That I must be controlled, barefoot, and pregnant in the kitchen.

“No twins, and yes, they’re all mine,” I graciously attempted a smile.

“And school? How are you able to leave for so long?”

“We homeschool,” I braced myself.

It was as though she’d picked up a scent, the dogs now unleashed. I was like the frog in science class, my intimate details on a tray, waiting for her intricate dissection.

But as I answered, another cashier interrupted and asked for her help.

“I’ll be right back, hold tight,” she walked away, slowly shaking her head.

I couldn’t determine whether her curled lip and wrinkled nose indicated pity or if she thought my story improbable. Either way, maybe she’d forget this inquisition by the time she came back.

Istarted feeling snarky, unpatriotic — so opposite Minnesota nice.

I didn’t get how some people thought they could ask anything, penetrating tentacles probing deeper and deeper, suctioning answers they felt due.

Honestly, I got tired of filling in the blanks, ignoring the stares, putting on a happy face, and pretending I didn’t care.

How many times did I need to fake laugh at “You almost have a baseball team” or “Don’t you guys know what a TV is?”

Don’t get me wrong, I love talking, but I’m a bit more reserved, especially at first. This made absolutely no sense whatsoever to my in-your-face, whether you wanted him to be or not, logical, extroverted husband.

We were opposites. I tended to see the world idealistically, quietly, while he viewed this disposition as a weakness I needed to fix. He was happy to answer any questions and never thought it rude.

Somehow, they never asked him, though — I was always the one.

One of our ongoing differences is how he views life as black or white. I feel nearly nothing is as it seems. It could never possibly be as concise. But for him, life is simple, either it is or isn’t.

Period.

Debating was something he lived for, provoking anyone that would fall into his typically well-laid trap. And it always turned loud and heated. He wouldn’t stop until he won — even when proven wrong.

I preferred harmony, having grown up in a home filled with much tension and arguing. My husband thought that bizarre, making his point at any cost was and is the fruit of life. He thoroughly enjoyed it. I just didn’t.

It transported me back to times in my childhood that needed letting go. I’d fought enough battles; I didn’t want more.

Mary slipped back behind the counter, her unyielding face revealing nothing.

“So, you decided to homeschool them? How does that even work? Do they have friends? Are they happy? I could never do that,” she concluded before I had a chance to respond.

I get this everywhere I go, especially the grocery store. Back in 2014, being plant-based was nowhere near mainstream. Especially for a family. Moreover, a large family.

It went something like this.

Grocery store clerk: That’s a lot of food! Are you vegan? Do you make your kids eat that way? How many kids do you have? Do you make all your meals from scratch? Your grocery bills must be so high. This would last me an entire month. How can you afford organic? What do you drive, one of those big vans? What does your husband do for a living?

Me: Sigh.

I truly understand people’s interests. I just never enjoyed living in a fishbowl. When we started our family, it grew little by little, drawing a bit more attention with each additional one. And then one day, bam, we had the spotlight wherever we went.

I used to watch the Duggars, simply to feel camaraderie.

Robotically responding to Mary’s questions, I watched for the grand total so we could pay for our items and leave. We had been in Cabela’s long enough. Greasy hamburger smells from the cafeteria were getting to me.

My mood was deflating. Still, I reminded myself she was curious, probably not judging, and even if she was, it wasn’t worth worrying about.

Focus on the good.

“Boy, this is going to be an expensive camping trip. So, what does your husband do for a living?” Mary asked.

“Wait — What? How Many Kids Do You Have?” is a piece from my series: The makings of a divorce.

Growing up, I swore I’d never allow a man to hit me — it was one of my lines in the sand. I had watched Mom get too many black eyes.

I was intentional in choosing a partner. I wanted to stop the far-reaching cycle of abuse. Though, after 22 years and nine children, I found that someone doesn’t need to hit you to break you down. Black eyes come in many forms.

Sticks and stones break our bones — but is it true that words can’t hurt you? To be continued…