“For 25 years, Teacher.”

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.




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