And no, I won't share her. She's all mine.

It was obvious to me when I first met my in-laws that I would be marrying into a fantastic family.

That fact has been confirmed to me many times over the 16 years of my marriage, but none more so than at the tea party Oma threw for the little girl cousins while we were in Utah. (Which, mind you, she throws monthly for the in-staters).

I have heard the tales of the famous tea parties, but scarcely could have imagined the complete and utter genius that is the Oma.

First on the agenda at the tea party, is decorating a large banner. Crayons, markers, and colored pencils await the creative minds and hands of little girls. There are no lines that need to be stayed in. There are no rules. The more colorful and garish, the better. Little scribbles are at home next to neat, detailed words.

And what could possibly be better than hanging your masterpiece with tape onto the mantle?

After all, a tea party must be properly decorated.

Next, the girls are divided into teams of two, with big girls happily partnering with little girls. Every pair is handed their very own scotch tape and several rolls of crepe paper. Decorating of furniture is highly encouraged.

Next, the girls are whisked off to the beauty station. Each girl competes for space at the full-length mirror where hair do's are coiffed and created using the ribbons, bows, and curlers from Oma's stash. Pink foam curlers provide the ultimate in ladies hair fashion and magically are "ready" in about eight seconds.

After the proper time has been spent in the beauty salon, it is time for the fitting of the gowns. Stylish traveling trunks have been brought for the occasion and somehow eight girls manage to find just the right outfit without any fighting or tears. There are shoes, accessories, hats, and gowns enough for all.

This Oma knows what she's doing.

Once all the divas are properly attired, it is time for the fashion show, complete with runway walk and color commentary by our hostess.

Twirling is highly encouraged.

No tea party would be complete without an excited interruption by the big brother, just returning from his antique store shopping with the Opa. World War II weapons and artillery are the souvenir du jour in the 10-year-old boy crowd.

Sadly, I am not sure any of the girls even noticed.

The brief interruption over, and it is time for tea. Every girl receives her own pitcher of cream, a tea cup, and saucer. Tiny treats and bite-sized fruit delight even the pickiest of palates.

And one must always remember to raise her pinkie when drinking at a ladies tea.

Tea-time entertainment is provided in story form by the seemingly tireless Oma. Quite fitting, naturally, that all the stories are tea party related.

Once the food and drink have been devoured, it is time for the clean up. Eight little heads bob happily into the kitchen for dish washing. That task is completed, and they return with disposable wipes for the tables.

Cleaning has never seemed so fun.

The grand finale is a game of artistic freeze dance, after which everyone is declared a winner and receives a bracelet and some lipstick.

Is it wrong that we're considering moving here, JUST for the tea parties?

These are the memories that generations are made of.

Bless you, Oma.

The one in which she keeps posting about her travels...

So, the fry sauce was a dead giveaway, was it?

You crazy Utahns. How you came up with the genius that is fry sauce, I will never know. But in all our travels, we have never found its equal.

Though the Husband will not touch the stuff with a ten-foot pole, I, however, could bathe in it. It is the only way to eat deep fried potatoes and I will forever be grateful for its discovery.

But while we were in Utah, we did a lot of fun things.

We took time to smell the roses:

We rode up our beloved mountains on ski lifts and marveled at the view.

Once at the top, we exhaled, sighed, and wondered if there was any place on earth quite as lovely.

That spectacular view was somewhat diminished during our hour-long wait to ride the Alpine Slide. Apparently, the track is quite deadly after a rain and it took several runs for the employees to get it dry enough to let us go down.

I was quite content to wait, even though some in my party were less than patient [cough*the Husband*cough].

One of us jumped from rock to rock. Again and again. And again. And again.

Honestly. All I need is a pair of rocks and this kid could entertain himself all day.

[Note to self: See how exciting the rocks seem when he opens them Christmas morning.]

We (some of us more than others, of course) had really good hair days. Ah, that dry desert air. Does wonders on the humidity-drenched locks that adorn my head.

Please give a moment of silence for my perfect bangs. They will never look so tame again.

And, lord help me, did we eat.

And eat.

And eat some more.

I am ashamed to tell you the number of pounds gained in just ten days' time [cough*five*cough] but it was worth every fat-filled calorie.

Tragically, it will take me about 10 weeks to get it off again, I am sure.

Anyway, thanks for playing along. Courtesy of random-dot-org, the winner is:

Julianna said...

I'm going with the majority and saying Utah... I may just need to visit, that fry sauce looks yummy!

July 26, 2010 6:44:00 PM CDT

Send me an email with your address and a little something is headed your way, chica.

Stay tuned tomorrow for a tea party that will make you weep with jealousy...

Priorities

We have been in this state less than 24 hours and already we have hit one of my must-eat spots.

Because it's all about priorities, you know.

Can you guess what state we are in?

This one ought to be easy for a lot of you, and because of that, I will throw all entries (whether correct or not) into a hat and send the lucky winner a prize.

Contest ends 24 hours from right now.

Happy speculating!

(And here's hoping that sometime soon I will stop posting about food, vacations, and food eaten on my vacations)

Because there's nothing worse than reliving other people's vacations, right?

Though we've been home from our trip to Boston for almost a month, I am finally getting around to editing the pictures I took there.

Why so long, you say?

Well, for one thing, I had eight corporate head shot sessions and a private family session that I did while we were there. Not to mention the 2-3 sessions per week I've had since we got home. Staying up until midnight every night editing does not necessarily entice one to want to work on pictures that no one is paying for.

But as I looked through them, it really brought the trip back and made me so happy that we went. Like this picture, for instance, taken on the top floor of Faneuil Hall.

You know, the top floor where there is a museum.

Which I never knew existed during the six years we lived there.

Frankly, because there was no way I was hauling a stroller up three flights of stairs to have one of my children break something historic again. So in all that time, I never once ventured to the top. Which is quite sad. Because honestly, they don't make light this gorgeous just anywhere.

I also discovered this photo hidden in the mix:

Which tragically (or luckily, depending on your point of view) is one of three pictures taken of me this whole year. We were walking the Freedom Trail and paused to rest in the courtyard outside of the Old North Church. I set my camera down on the bench beside me, relieved to be free from the 900 pound weight that it is, and McKay picked it up and started snapping. Granted, there are a lot of very blurry pictures of his feet and Chase's face, but this one really stood out and made me happy.

And we have several token touristy photos in the bunch, as well. Which really are photos only a mother (or grandmother) could love.

But I will end with this one, which might be one of my favorites taken on the trip. We had been walking for several hours in the heat and she appeared at my feet, begging to be carried. Not realizing, of course, that my days of carrying her ended as soon as she decided to sprout legs as long as the state of California.

But I like her heat-flushed cheeks, windblown hair, her baby freckles, and the tired sparkle in her green eyes. The imploring expression that is just seconds away from saying, "Mom..." followed by a plea of some sort. It's a face I've seen a thousand times.



And a face I'm sure to see a thousand more.

Marveling at my awesome parenting once again

Last Sunday, I noticed my middle child limping and hobbling on our way into church. Crabby, tired, and short on patience, I told him to knock it off.

Also? The Mother of the Year people just called. My award is on its way.

He looked up at me with sadness in his startlingly blue eyes and said, "I'm sorry, mom. My toes are just scrunched up in my shoes and they really hurt."

After giving myself 6,000 lashes with the belt made entirely out of guilt, I apologized and promised to get him some new shoes this week.

It really shouldn't have surprised me. The new Sunday pants I bought him at Easter? Like three inches too short now. I don't know what this kid is eating that is so different than the others. Nobody else is sprouting ankles out of their pants by the hour. An inch or two every year at best. But this one? He's grown about three inches in the last few months alone.

So yesterday we headed over to the mall. I started at Macy's, figuring I'd buy his forgiveness make up for the insensitive remark by treating him to a great pair of shoes from a respectable department store. I also wanted to hit the MAC counter for myself. The day was all about him. Making him feel special and loved.

Only, much to my dismay, I discovered that he has completely outgrown the children's sizes, and is now smack dab in the middle of the men's shoe sizes.

Sweet. fancy. moses.

Have you ever seen how expensive men's dress shoes are? Ain't no way I'm dropping $150 on a pair of shoes that, in all likelihood, will fit him for about eight minutes. I rarely spend that much money on my OWN shoes.

So I lied and told him I didn't think any of the shoes there looked good and steered him toward Famous Footwear. Where the shoes were only $90.

And then I steered him towards Sears, where the shoes were only $60.

By this time, I was running out of excuses as to why I felt the stores just didn't have his style. I think he believed me after the first store. But by store three, he was looking at me like I had totally lost it.

We ended up at *gasp* Payless, and I gladly forked over $40 for a pair of surprisingly decent-looking dress shoes. It still pained me slightly, knowing that he only wears them a few hours every week, but it was definitely better than the alternatives.

Here's hoping they fit him for more than a month.

Because, really, if anybody is going to be spending the Husband's hard-earned money on more shoes around here, it definitely ought to be me.

Summing it up nicely

Said by Hannah at lunch yesterday:

"I might be a little bit mental, but I've got a great sense of style."

I'm just wondering which part she gets from me, and which part she gets from the Husband.

Never mind. Don't answer that.