And it's going to be a long, long time.

Last night, I went to see my Babysitter get married. She's 20 years old. A junior at a nearby liberal arts college.

No, she's not pregnant. She's actually a pretty level-headed, mature young woman. Way more mature than I am! Trust me, this is the sort of girl you pay serious bucks to keep at the ready for watching your children. When we snoop online after she's spent time with Daughter X, she's not looked at porn or MTV.com on our home computer.

Nope, she's surfed about a dozen Catholic Web sites.

So it didn't come as any surprise to any of us when she decided to say "yes" to her high-school boyfriend and marry him before she can legally drink. But it surprises other people when I tell them.

"Twenty years old?" a friend of mine repeated incredulously. "Seriously, give me her number. I have a lot to tell her."

Another friend was equally astonished. "And she's not pregnant? No? Well, she's getting a baby, anyway."

In some ways, I find it totally odd that I am OK with the Babysitter getting married. Aren't I supposed to be about empowerment and women conquering the world? When I was 20, marriage was the last thing on my mind. I had the same reactions when I heard about someone my age tying the knot so young. What's the rush? There is money to be made, places to live and things to do entirely by one's self. Twenty is just so young.

But how much older was I, really, when I "settled down?" (And why do they call it "settling" since I've never settled for anything, even after I said "I do.")  I was 22 when Dr. X (back then, a doctor was just someone you saw once or twice a year for a tooth ache or a bad cold) asked me to marry him. I was 24 when we stood up before God and more than 100 people we don't see on a regular basis and pledged our troth. 

Twenty four. Twenty four years old!

Now I am almost 34 and, in hindsight, probably would have married Dr. X even sooner, if I could have. We have so much fun together, we laugh constantly and learn from each other every single day. Oh, sure, we have our moments that model less than ideal forms of marital bliss. Like today when the plumber decided to charge us an additional $300 and I decided to blame Dr X. A doctorate has to be worth something more than a fancy schmancy diploma hanging on the wall, right? Didn't they teach him to fix hot water heaters along with statistical analysis? 

That's it, though. That's what I hope the Babysitter is prepared for... Not the extreme joys of being a newlywed and the other momentous familial milestones ahead, but the stupid fights. The squabbles over money. The gut-wrenching despair of disappointment, whether it be about babies or cleaning the bathroom. 

But getting out of bed every day and knowing someone has got your back - that he won't let you fall (or fall every far) - that's worth the a thousand arguments over forgetting something on the kitchen table for the bajillionth time. Because he truly is my other, not necessarily always better, half. My partner. My life.

And if we're stale-mating on who's cleaning out the cat box next, it's going to be awhile before there's clean litter for kitty. 'Til death do us part.