Mom couldn't wear heels in her wedding dress because she'd be taller than Dad. As you can see, she compromised by wearing something tall on her head instead. Thus began their life together.
Before they got married, I believe my mother told my father she wanted 8 kids. Amazingly, he stuck around. They settled for 2.
Actually, it's more than 2 if you count the dogs. Their first "child" was really a Standard Poodle named Bonnie. Bonnie was on the small end of the Standard classification, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in personality. She was feisty and a fabulous ball player. Three years later I came along. I had a lot to live up to.
Bonnie had no use for me. Typical older sister - she didn't like having her blessed only-child status ruined. But by the time the next daughter was born, she'd become resigned to her fate and managed to tolerate Meredith.
There were other sister dogs through the years. Thistle (Standard Poodle) and Stormy (Doberman - mine)...and now, the baby of the family (and, of course, the favorite) is Rosie.
Rosie gets to sit on the furniture. None of the rest of us did.
The one and only real FIGHT I can remember my parents having when I was a kid culminated in my Dad LEAVING! TO GO FOR A WALK! I was quite shaken, as I recall. What if he never came back???? But he did, and things went back to normal.
The fight? His shoes on top of her shoes on the floor of the closet.
After years and years (and years and years) of marriage, they've developed, like Burns and Allen, their routines. My favorite is - and has always been - my father needling my mother until she gets what my sister (the human one) and I refer to as her "cat whisker face." This is hard to describe, but basically it's a violent pressing of the lips together AND, at the same time, pursing them. Little lines appear above her top lip, and these are the cat whiskers.
Anyway, Dad will keep things going (sorry - can't think of an example) until The Face appears and she looks away from him, rolling her eyes at anyone else in the room while simultaneously looking murderous. And cat-whiskered. And behind her, Dad suddenly grins (much like my 7-year-old mid-mischief) and he'll grasp an invisible wooden spoon and stir an invisible pot.
It's stuff like that that keeps a marriage going. Affectionate torment.
So Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!
Your Second Child