Yesterday Aaron and I celebrated our ten-year anniversary. What is that? Gold? Diamonds? Paper? Ten and a half years ago when I was engaged to the man of my dreams and planning the wedding of my dreams, someone gave me a chart that explained what each anniversary meant and what we were supposed to give each other to celebrate it. Nah. That's not our style. Instead, we hired a babysitter and skipped town for the evening. We did shop a bit (Aaron found the white belt and flip-flops he had been hunting for, and I fell in love with a perfume called Sexy Little Things Noir--so I guess ten-years equals belts and perfume to the Baarts?), and then we went out for a three-hour supper overlooking the river. Baked shrimp with Havarti, pineapple glazed salmon, and cheesecake for dessert. It was perfect. We talked about books, work, our kids, and the highlights of our decade as man and wife. The birth of our son, traveling to Ethiopia to claim our second son, and buying our first house ranked high. But then, so did the Saturday morning tradition of our first year of marriage (Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in bed), the crappy apartment that we called home after we said "I do," and bumming on the couch in flannel pjs watching Hockey Night in Canada. Oh, life is sweet. Marriage is sweet. Here's to ten amazing years. May there be a hundred more.