This weekend we went hiking in Massachusetts and Connecticut, an experience I'll write about in full later, but the short version is that it was beautiful and fun, and the fresh air and views were so worth scaling rocks on my hands and knees while semi-worrying about being attacked by vicious wildlife.

J carried Nora in the Baby Bjorn the whole way up and back on this pretty challenging hike we did, and he didn't complain about it once. In fact, he not only carried her nearly 20-pounds up steep inclines, but he'd often reach out his hand and help me during the rougher parts. When I remarked on his expertise, he simply replied, "I have good footing."

I, friends, do not have good footing. I fell approximately five times while on this hike, and I don't mean that I tripped and caught myself before faceplanting; I'm not talking about "close ones." I mean that I fell down - hard - because I'm clumsy. I know everyone likes to talk about how clumsy they are, but trust me, I'm the real deal. I don't need to sit here and try and convince you guys, there are people who can vouch for this.

It's no fun to fall down. It's embarrassing and it hurts. So I was tempted, upon, oh, fall number two or three, to just remain there, dirt-covered and frowning, and refuse to go any further.

But I couldn't keep up the negativity. And that's because my husband and my daughter were standing there, happy as hell and distinctly upright, clapping for me. Impossible to resist in their joyful love of the outdoors. So I'd laugh at them and their ridiculous wide smiles, and soldier forward.

There are a lot of qualities I admire in my husband, like his attention to detail, his curiosity, his coffee-making skills and his eternal optimism. This weekend I discovered another in his ability to climb mountains gracefully. No, really, it's small but important. I fall, he does not - one more truth that I believe makes us a good match.

Happy anniversary, my sure-footed husband, and here's to many more years.