Last night before my ESL class, one of my students tried to explain to me what she did over Christmas. With my less-than-pathetic Spanglish, I figured out that she had spent most of her vacation in Mexico with her family, but the last bit was hard to follow.
Then she pulled out a picture. “Yo y mi husband,” she said. “Para 25 years, Teacher.” She had renewed her vows. The pictures were of her, same age as my mother, in a (yes) smoking hot wedding gown. It was fabulous. She has a proud look about her most times when I have her in class, a kind of pride that’s unscathed by making mistakes in English. But these pictures showed off something much more wonderful — something that made our 1 and 1/2 year marriage look like a baby marriage compared to hers.
We’ve been married for over eighteen months. I recognize that, by comparison, it’s barely a dent in the life-long marriage timeline we hope for. But so much has happened. So much has changed in eighteen months. Twenty-five more years of “happenings” seems daunting.
Then she showed me a picture of her whole family gathered around her: all seven children dressed up and smiling with their parents. I told her that BJ and I had only been married for a year and a half — that we were very far away from celebrating 25 years.
Then she asked, “Teacher, one year?”
“Yeah, Maria. Just eighteen months.”
(And then the question I hear at least once a month…)
“No babies yet, Teacher?”
Good grief. Sigh.