I married the first man I ever kissed. When I tell this to my

The words of Barbara Bush, matriarch, mother, and witness to the tides of history, shimmer with both humor and humility: “I married the first man I ever kissed. When I tell this to my children, they just about throw up.”
Beneath the laughter lies a tender wisdom — a truth about love, time, and the simplicity of devotion. In her voice, one hears not the boast of innocence nor the regret of limitation, but the calm joy of a woman who found her heart early and remained faithful to it through every season. It is a statement at once lighthearted and profound, for it speaks of a love that endured from youth to age, from the first blush of romance to the quiet companionship of twilight.

Barbara Bush lived in a century of change — a century that saw the world rise from war and rebuild its spirit. When she met George H. W. Bush, she was just a girl of sixteen; he, a young pilot whose destiny would carry him from the skies of battle to the halls of power. Their love began in the soft simplicity of youth, unshaped by the cynicism of later times. That first kiss was not a fleeting passion but a seed of devotion, planted in innocence and tended by decades of loyalty. When she later spoke of it with humor, it was not to belittle that beginning, but to remind us that what seems quaint to one generation can, in another, stand as something heroic — the enduring power of constancy in a restless world.

Her children’s reaction — “they just about throw up” — reveals the shift in the spirit of the ages. In a modern world where love is often fleeting and romance transient, the idea of marrying one’s first love seems impossibly naïve, even dull. But Barbara’s laughter hides a lesson: that love’s greatness does not lie in variety, but in depth. The ancients taught that true union is not found in the endless pursuit of pleasure, but in the steadfast meeting of souls. To stay with one person, to build a life from one bond, is not a failure of adventure — it is an adventure of the highest kind, the long and patient voyage of two spirits learning to grow together without losing themselves.

Consider the story of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, who, like the Bushes, found each other early and remained united until death. Their marriage was not without struggle — duty, loss, and the burden of empire pressed upon them — yet Victoria’s heart was anchored in her devotion to Albert. After his passing, she lived the rest of her life clothed in mourning, her love unbroken even by death. To some, this may seem excessive; to others, it is proof that devotion, when pure, transcends time itself. Barbara Bush’s story belongs to this same tradition of fidelity — not the love that burns briefly and vanishes, but the one that endures the years with quiet strength.

Her humor, however, keeps her wisdom human. She does not speak from a pedestal of perfection, but from the hearth of experience. Her marriage, like all marriages, faced storms — wars, politics, loss, and the relentless gaze of the public. Yet her tone is not solemn but joyful, her laughter proof that love need not be grand to be real. She reminds us that tenderness and mirth can coexist, that the beauty of love is found not only in passion but in companionship, forgiveness, and shared laughter. The truest bonds are those that can endure both tears and jest.

The meaning of her quote, then, reaches beyond romance. It speaks of contentment, that rare virtue in a world of endless choice. Barbara Bush’s life was not about seeking more, but about deepening what she already had. She shows us that happiness is not found in the chase, but in the cherishing — in learning to love the familiar as if it were new each day. This kind of love, born from one kiss and sustained through a lifetime, is not the love of fairy tales, but of faith, patience, and humor — virtues the modern heart too easily forgets.

So, my child, let her words be both a smile and a sermon. Laugh as she laughed — for joy and humility should walk hand in hand — but also learn from her truth. Do not measure love by how many times it begins, but by how long it endures. Seek not the thrill of the fleeting, but the peace of the lasting. For if fortune grants you one soul to walk beside from youth to old age, then cherish that bond as something sacred — the quiet miracle of two lives woven into one. And when you tell your own children of such love, let them laugh — for laughter, too, is the music of devotion well-lived.