If you've looked to the side of my blog lately, you know that I am currently counting down the days until I have a full-time house husband at my disposal. For all those who made funny faces or scathing remarks when I married above my age bracket, this is my big chance to have the last laugh. Here I am with a house full of kids, still a relatively young woman with what I hope is at least half of my life before me, and I get to enter the retiree phase of life. You are welcome to envy me.
While I never set out to marry someone much older, it can hardly have been a surprise to anyone who knew me. When I was 15, I had a crush on a 52-year-old friend of my parents. When I was 17, I took a 22-year-old to my junior prom. The truth is, I never really felt at ease with many people of my own age. So, when I found myself falling for the wonderful man who became my husband, discovering the 20-year gap in our ages only gave me the briefest pause. Why, I asked myself, does that need to matter?
My husband, bless him, worried that it would matter. He wasted a portion of our courtship in trying to convince me of this, to no avail. It is true that there are some generational differences. My children's cousins were mostly grown up by the time they were just entering the scene. And I have been mistaken for my husband's daughter a handful of times--though I might just attribute that to my deceptively youthful appearance and count it as a compliment to me.
The thing is, it has never mattered. The age issue has never been a part of our relationship. We have grown up together just as surely as any same-age couple. When I look at him, I see nothing more or less than the sweet companion of my life. It is only through others' eyes that I am reminded that there is anything out of the common way in our situation. Which makes me realize that they are right--I am uncommonly blessed.