In March, Innocent Husband and I celebrated 23 years of marriage.

Twenty three years.

Three kids, one cat, two birds.

We’ve loved and laughed and had some thunder and lightning type arguments, although in our latter years we’ve really mellowed out.

We’ve gone through beautiful years, tough years, and a few that were brutal.

We buried our mothers in 2002, after both wonderful women fought cancer with strength and courage.

We buried our beloved fathers in 2007. One died from cancer, one from kidney and heart failure.

We’ve gone through the teenage years with our kids.

We’ve addressed all the problems that come with life, sometimes agreeing, sometimes not. We have never pretended our marriage has been perfect, because it has not been.

But we’ve fished, hiked, and skied, although I am a bad skier. We’ve had great Italian food and Thai drunken noodles. We’ve seen glowing sunsets along the beach and up in the snowy mountains.

We have loved and adored our dear children, the number one focus of our whole lives.

So one would think that we would celebrate our 23rd anniversary. Do something fun and exciting. We are still married, despite it all. We still laugh. We are a family, we are the Lambs.

But we were sick on our anniversary.

I brought soup to my brother, who was sick, along with his wife and son, and brought their wretched cold home with me.

So on our anniversary, we sniffled and coughed and exchanged cards.  We felt like hell. We looked like hell. We got coffee and went on a drive through the country. We saw the big red barn, a golden field, a hawk. Then we came home and collapsed on the couch.

We both agreed it was a relief to celebrate simply, to celebrate easily, to have no stress or expectations for a party or romantic dinner, that we could sneeze and hold hands and wish each other, “Happy Anniversary, baby.”

You’re still sexy, Innocent Husband, yes you are. Looking forward to a few more decades with you.