Eight-cow Wife

When we were engaged we were dirt poor—well...we had money in the bank (I had money in the bank; Andrew didn't, not much, anyway) but we had big plans with that money (a study abroad to Jordan, for example) so in essence it was already spent, making us dirt poor. Not unlike now, really.

We bought our wedding rings at Wal-Mart. Frugal, I know. We purchased two wedding bands and an engagement ring. It took them forever to get fitted but eventually they came in. Andrew picked them up and tried to surprise me only he had forgotten to think of a plan of how to surprise me beforehand so ended scrambling in the car for props when he pulled up to my house. He quickly found a Hershey's kiss in the car, unwrapped it, nibbled off a bit of chocolate around the bottom, replaced the nibbled-off chocolate with my ring, and rewrapped it.

I knew he was picking me up so I had been watching out the window for him and met him in the car instead of having him pick me up at the door (as he usually would have done).

"Here," he said when I got in the car, "This is for you."

He gave me a sheepish grin.

"I don't even eat chocolate. Remember?"

"I know, I know, I know. It's still for you."

"It's my ring, isn't it?"

"No...yes."

He's such a silly boy, and a complete romantic flop. Most of the time. To his credit, there have been occasions when he has excelled at sentimental romance. For example, on our first anniversary he gave me a book of the letters (okay, emails...but letters sounds more romantic) that we had sent to each other while he was on his mission and after (when we were dating). Romance FTW!*

I've had my ring for five years now, give or take.

Earlier this week we were having a pee party in the bathroom—Miriam can't go potty without company so Rachel and I were giving her some—and Rachel asked me about my wedding rings.

"Is that the ring Daddy gave you when you married him?" she asked, pointing to my engagement ring.

"No, that's the ring Daddy gave me so that I would marry him. It's my engagement ring. When I took it I promised that I would marry him. When we got married he gave me this other one. It's called a wedding band."

I twisted it around so that she could see the diamonds. My rings are always twirling around my finger and I'm always twisting them around to face the right way. This isn't really a problem with the wedding band—it's just a simple band with nine teeny, tiny diamonds (or some pretty substance) inlaid. It is a problem with the engagement ring but only when I go to hold Andrew's hand and end up stabbing him—it has a teeny, tiny diamond set up high with three teeny, tiny diamonds to either side.

As I twisted my ring around I noticed something amiss on my wedding band: there was a big, gaping hole where a diamond should have been. Rather, it was a teeny, tiny hole, but still! I lost a diamond!

Considering all the abuse my ring has gone through in the past five years I'm really not that surprised. Swimming, hiking, cooking, cleaning, running, birthing, mothering, showering, sleeping. That ring does everything with me, which is why I'm a little upset.

On the flip-side, I'm really not that attached to jewelry, not even my own wedding band. Is that callous? Perhaps, but it's just a piece of metal, and we bought it at Wal-Mart, for crying out loud. So I'm not too upset.

But I am a little upset.

I suppose now that I've lost one of the diamonds from my wedding band I'm officially an eight-cow wife. Or at least an eight-diamond wife.

*That stands for "for the win." Sometimes I like to say things like that so that I sound trendy and not old.