This morning after Thing 1 was dropped off at school, and Thing 2 was dropped off at Bible study with Gramma (Thanks Mom!), I decided to hit Panera at the mall. I had errands to run there, and an hour to kill before the stores opened, and I was hungry, and I had my laptop with me, so Panera was the perfect place to park it.

I went inside and ordered a breakfast sandwich and a nonfat chai tea latte (I only like coffee if it’s in ice cream), and then get this: I gave them money that I had earned through working, and then they brought me breakfast. It was great. No one forced them to feed me, and I wasn’t forced to be there. I was there because I like Panera; they served me with a smile because I paid them to do so.

Contemplating the beauty of capitalism, I had to tweet about it:

Because I love Twitter. And I’m addicted to it.

After I ate my lovely breakfast and got some work done (so I can go to Panera again in the future), I embarked upon my errands.

First, I had to get some charms added to my charm bracelet that Leif got me for Christmas last year. It’s totally sentimental and silly and I absolutely love it. Among the charms are a wine bottle, a palm tree, and a heart painted with stars and stripes. Again, I love capitalism. You think Soviet wives under Stalin got charm bracelets for Christmas? No way! They were lucky not to starve to death.

Next up was a return. I bought this shirt and cardigan thingy over the summer from Nordstrom. It was a splurge purchase for me, in celebration of one of my best contracts being renewed. Because the pieces were so nice, I always dry-cleaned them, even though the labels said I could hand wash in cold water. Then a couple of weeks ago, I decided to go last minute to Vegas to see the CNN GOP debate, and I didn’t have time to hit the cleaners. So I hand washed them. And they shrank. Like a lot.

I still had my receipt, so I took the clothes back to Nordstrom and told the sales girl exactly what had happened. “Oh, I hate when that happens!” she shared while she returned the items and credited my Visa, no questions asked.

One of the reasons I love Nordstrom and choose to shop there is because of their exceptional customer service. Again, viva la capitalism! In fact, I was so thrilled with the transaction that I immediately went to the girls’ department and spent the money on Christmas dresses for the girls. They’re teal and velvety and I know they’re going to love them and look adorable in them.

After I left the mall, I knew that I needed to find a place to buy some new running shoes. I loathe Sports Authority something fierce, so I avoid it at all costs. Why do I hate it so? Because the employees act like they’re doing me a favor by even glancing my way. Hello, I’m trying to give you money in exchange for goods; can I get a little help here? Anyone? Bueller?

No thanks.

There’s this store I’ve seen near my house that looks like a boutique running store. I was worried that they wouldn’t have a big selection, or that everything would be overpriced, but in the spirit of trying new things and supporting small businesses, I thought I’d give it a try.

It was wonderful! The sales guy was an avid runner, and asked me all about my routine, he measured my arches, checked for pronation, and brought out several different styles for me to try. After each one, he asked what I liked and what could be better. He and the owner (who was nearby at the counter) made small talk and cracked jokes, and even said I had good running form.

I left with a reasonably priced pair of kicks and the satisfaction of having supported a small business with an awesome work ethic. I’ll be going back there for all of my running needs.

The whole morning of business transactions made me so grateful for capitalism. I get to do a job that I love, and I get to choose where to spend the money I earn. These Occupy kids have no idea how the world works, with their stupid ideas about government regulations fixing everything. That never works.

Capitalism isn’t perfect, but regulation through free-choice spending is the best option we’ve got.

When I was in DC last week, I got the incredible opportunity to meet some real life heroes. The Doolittle Raiders were soldiers during WWII that that went on a super secret and scary dangerous mission to bomb the Japanese mainland.

A fishing boat saw their aircraft carrier about 600 miles off the coast, and worried that the captain might have radioed in the sighting before they could take him out, Jimmy Doolittle decided that they needed to get moving now.

There were 16 B-25 twin-engine bombers containing five men each, and none of them had enough fuel to get back. The planes would have to land in occupied China, and the soldiers would have to find their way out.

Yeah, that’s an awesome feat of bravery if ever I’ve heard one.

They were all smiling and taking photo-ops with us, and when it was my turn, I shook this man’s hand and said, “I can’t believe I get to meet a real live hero. What an honor it is to meet you!”

He didn’t miss a beat before replying, “Are you kidding me? What an honor it is for me to get to meet such a beautiful girl!”

And then I melted into a puddle.

My Favorite Place On the Planet

So I’m in DC for AFP’s Defending the American Dream Summit, where I’m feeling all professional and stuff. I’m even wearing pantyhose! And I can’t get Dolly Parton out of my head.

Working nine to five! What a way to make a livin’!

(Sorry for the earworm.)

Except that it’s now 2pm and I’m just now sitting down to clack something out on my keyboard. Because I got lost in DC. I love this city, but man are the road signs confusing.

It started out innocent enough – 2 blocks down to the CVS to pick up some deodorant, because of course I’m a dork that forgot to pack it. Attendees of the conference; you are welcome. Then I decided that I wanted to wear my jeans today, but I only packed t-shirts, and that just won’t suit when I’m supposed to be all fancy.

So off I went in search of a Macy’s.

The very nice cashier at the pharmacy pointed me in the right direction, and I’m sure I would’ve been totally fine, had there not been a detour due to road construction. Crap.

So I did what any rational Apple-lover would do and whipped out my iPhone and pulled up the maps. I entered the address of the Macy’s after looking it up on the internet in the palm of my hand, clicked the walking directions button, and assumed I was good to go.

I walked the mile or so to the spot that my phone was telling me was a Macy’s. I could’ve taken the metro or something, but I love to walk, and I love DC, and the weather was gorgeous, so why the heck not?

Only when I got there, I found myself staring at George Washington University. That’s not Macy’s. Oh hey, I think I can see the Lincoln Memorial! Forget Macy’s, I want to go there and gaze upon the marble immortalization of my favorite president, and read the words of his second inaugural address carved into the wall.

I love doing that.

It was a bit more of a trek than I’d thought, with tons of detours and wacky signs, and I started to feel like I was trying to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Finally found it. Loved it. Decided to ditch the effort to find a cute top and suit up instead. Started the trek back.

And then I got lost.

And then I thought I was found.

Except I was still lost.

Then my phone said to go one way, and I’d go that way, only to check it again a block or two later and have it say I needed to go the other way. Then I’d turn around, go the other way, and check the phone, and it happened again. Those mice in the mazes deserve more candy or crack or whatever it is that they reward them with, because that job suuuuucks.

I know. I could’ve grabbed the metro, since there’s a stop right next to my hotel. But I never accidentally came across one (or I wasn’t paying attention), and then there are all those colored lines (not racist, I swear), and I really do like walking, and since I ended up wandering around the city for FOUR hours, I get to have mac-n-cheese for dinner if I want! Yay for cheese and carbs!

Obviously, I eventually made it back. With a new appreciation for leprechauns and mice.

No really, I did. We got the decorations up, the kids got gifts, we made the rounds to all the various relatives within driving distance … but I missed Christmas. I remember sometime in late February or early March, sitting down to catch my breath, and thinking to myself, “Ok, I’m ready for Christmas now!”

I’m not sure what it was, other than having a two-year-old at home with me, being the Class Mom for the second-grader (and all the scholastic frivolity that includes during the holiday season), and picking up several extra posts over at The Stir because so many of their more regular writers were on vacation … Oh, and coordinating the Christmas Tea Party for the ladies in my church.

I was kinda slammed last December.

This year, I’m determined to enjoy every gosh dern second of the magical holiday season. I think I’ll even take a class on wreath making. Because when would that skill not come in handy? Wreath making is a trade, people! It employs elves at the North Pole almost year round.

It’s only October, yet I’m already kindling my Christmas Mojo. The day after Thanksgiving, I’ll put some Bing Crosby holiday music on, pull out the decorations, make hot cocoa for the girls, and go to town decorating our plastic tree because we can’t have a real one since Leif is allergic to everything that grows.

But before Christmas is Thanksgiving, and before that is Halloween, and a certain eight-year-old of mine wants to be Dani Phantom. Of course she does. And that was only her second choice; her first was to be an actual ghost. Nope, not dress up like one, but actually be one.

I love that kid. I love her so much that I’ll make her a dang Dani Phantom costume. Because I love that she wants to be a kick-butt ghostly crime fighter. Maybe I’ll teach her how to make wreaths this December. She’s going to have mad job skyllz by the time I’m done raising her.

Any suggestions for how I can make her glow?

It’s 5:15 a.m. and I’m awake. I’ve been waking up at 4 recently, unable to go back to bed after my third bathroom trip of the night (thank you, childbirth) because by that time I’m no longer exhausted enough to drown out my darling husband’s snores with sleepiness.

Side note: Isn’t snoring the worst sound in the world? Ok, maybe the third worst, following nails on a chalkboard and cats in a blender. Not that I’ve ever heard cats in a blender. But I can imagine, and it’s not pretty.

Sometimes I can jam earplugs in and throw a pillow over my head and find a couple more hours of elusive rest. But I’ve had this cold recently, and the stuffy nose and the cough and poor tender head make me ache while I wait for the meds to kick in, and by the time they do … I’m pretty much awake.

By the time the clock hit five, I knew I was done, so I threw the covers off and headed down the hall to write this very post. The light was on. Huh. Strange. Stranger still was the sound of the TV. Ok, no longer strange.

Here’s what I found:

This little goober didn’t go to sleep until nearly eleven last night, even though she was put to bed before nine. It was the same old But I Need game, which (I’m pretty sure) children have played since the dawn of time. You know the one.

But I need a drink!

But I need to go potty!

But I need my night light!

But I need socks that don’t bother my feet!

But I need a hug!

But I need a different song on the ipod!

But I need to be tucked back in!

You get the idea. Anyway, my little non-sleeper was out in the living room watching TV. Which she is not allowed to do on school days. Apparently, she thought that rule only applied to afternoons and evenings, so she forced herself awake after six precious hours of sleep to enjoy some tunes.

New rule: No getting up until 6:30.

Except for Leif. If he wants to get up pre-crack of dawn and leave me to sleep in peace … I’d be ok with that. Love you, Honey!

So I wrote some stuff last week that I’d love for you to read. Click, read, comment, share – especially share. Word-of-mouth is where it’s at, baby. Plus, I really can’t afford fancy advertising. It’s ‘spensive.

The Occupy Wall Street goons are still on display. President Barack Obama feels their pain and understands their frustration. Iran thinks they’re swell. Iran also stones rape victims for ‘sexual immorality.’ As a general rule, I like not to agree with Iran on pretty much everything.

Obama called Mitt Romney a flip-flopping flip-flopper, which is completely true, of course. However, there’s this saying that come to mind about glass houses and throwing stones…

Priorities in Topeka are messed up, y’all. Social welfare programs and inflated benefits and pensions are not more important than legally protecting victims of domestic abuse.

Did Top 7 with Ashley today hopped up on cold meds because I caught Thing 2’s first preschool cold. I was trying to explain cloture, but since it’s totally boring and procedural, I replaced the word ‘cloture’ with the word ‘boobs.’ Way more entertaining that way.

Thankfully, Thing 2 was feeling better today, so she went back to preschool for the first time in a week. But now Thing 1 is sick, and has been out of school since Tuesday afternoon anyway, because there were parent-teacher conferences on Wednesday, and teacher in-service yesterday and today.

By the way, Thing 1 is a delight to have in class, especially with her engaging story-telling. Plus she’s not flunking out of Mandarin, so yay!

But given that Leif worked from home last Friday, it’s now been eight days since I’ve been at home by myself. Which is probably why I think I’m going to try to go to Vegas next week for at least part of the Western Republican Leadership Conference.

I did get to go out downtown last night, which was fun. I met up with a twitter friend, Debbie, who was in town on business. She does something super smart for the Navy, like Leif does. Only I don’t really know what either of them do. Something with sharks and laser beams attached to their heads, I’m sure.

I played with guns this week. Well, a gun, and I didn’t even really get to play with it — just hold it. My dad and brother bought some new toys (Mosin-Nagants to be exact), and let me hold one. My dad told me to pose with it, and true story, I put the butt on my shoulder like a bazooka. I’ve watched True Lies too many times, obviously. Next up: Actually learning to shoot one of those suckers.

And now I have to officially get back to serious writing. Heh. That sounds so stern and maybe even scholarly. That’s not me. I guess I should say time to get back to writing political op-ed. There. Now I  sound totally cool.

Actually, now I probably sound like the time in eighth grade when I thought I was cool because I was the flag team captain. Yup, I’ve always been this awesome.

The most ridiculous attempt at a family photo in the history of photography. And families.

My sweet precious firstborn baby girl turned eight years old last week. Holy crap I’m getting old. One of the disadvantages to having kids so young is that I don’t get to lie about my age. Um, yeah, I was 12 when I had her, that’s it…

But this post is not about me, or the wrinkle between my eyebrows that I’m pretty sure Thing 1 is responsible for. Nope, this post is about my newly minted eight-year-old, her fantastic party, and her wonderful friends.

All summer long, Thing 1 proclaimed her desire for a) a Pump It Up party and/or b) a surprise party. Pump It Up is this awesome party place filled with those giant bounce house and obstacle course inflatables, then they give the kids pizza, and when it’s time to go, you gladly hand them a small fortune and one of your kidneys because you get to leave and they clean up the mess.

In order to accomplish both of these tasks, I told my 7-and-three-quarters-year-old that she could not in any way, shape, or form have a Pump It Up Party unless she got a job and paid for it herself, and that she probably wouldn’t be having a fancy a party this year, since I had a trip planned and wouldn’t be home until the day before her birthday.

A few weeks before the Big Day, I booked the Pump It Up party for the day OF her birthday. Then I sent out an evite to the parents of her entire 3^rd grade class, telling them to ohmygosh please keep it a secret because Thing 1 was dying for a surprise party. Altogether we had eighteen third graders and one little sister.

On Monday morning, I reassured the birthday girl that I’d be coming to her class at snack time with cupcakes, and that Daddy would be home early from work, and she could pick where to go for dinner. She seemed ok about not having a party. My kid is awesome, y’all.

After round one of Operation Sugar Kids Up, the kids all headed out to recess, and the teacher quietly and excitedly asked me, “Is she really having a surprise party after school? The kids keep coming up and whispering to me not to tell her about her party!”

I did a mental head-desk … I wouldn’t even have told my kid about it, worried she wouldn’t be able to keep the secret. Oh well, nothing I could do about it.

Thing 1 and Friends

A few hours later, I was back at school, picking up the sweetie pie. I had gone to the store with Thing 2 to pick up cake and ice cream, which I stowed under some beach towels in the front seat. Thing 2 (age 3) happily proclaimed to her sister, “We got you birf-day cake!” And then she looked at me like I was insane when I said that we had not, but we could maybe later. “But we got dah cake,” she insisted. I ignored her and turned up the Kids’ Bop.

When we got to the party place, Leif and my mom were already there waiting for us. Thing 1 took it all in slowly… “Wait, why are we at Pump It Up? Is that Gramma? And Daddy? What are they doing here? Mommy…?”

I parked and looked at her and said, “Happy birthday, baby.”

“YOU MEAN I GET TO GO TO PUMP IT UP FOR MY BIRTHDAY???”

“Yup. AND all of your friends will be here in a few minutes for your birthday party.”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!” I’m still a little deaf in my left ear from that scream. And will forever be amazed that her friends all kept the secret. Chickadee had no clue what was up my sleeve.

No way was I going to miss out on the fun!

So basically, I’m like the coolest mom evah, and Thing 1 died from happiness, came back to life, and then died again. But again, this post is not about me, and it’s not even necessarily about a birthday party.

It’s about how our everyday interactions affect those around us, and how living a Christ-centered life is a witness to the world.

When the kids were playing on one of the climbing inflatables, they started to get a little bit rowdy. The referee/party supervisor looked on with what looked like a worried expression. “You can totally blow your whistle at them if they’re being too rough,” I reassured him. I’m not exactly what you’d call a helicopter parent.

“No, they’re fine,” he said, “It’s just strange… I’ve never seen anything like it before… they’re helping each other climb to the top.”

“Well what do kids normally do?” Inquiring minds wanted to know.

“Pull each other down!” He said with good humor. He asked, “These kids are classmates?”

“Yup. The go to the private Christian school over the hill. They’re a pretty tight group.”

I’ve mentioned before that Thing 1 goes to a school that we like very much and sacrifice quite a bit for in order to send her there. It uses a classical approach to learning that you can learn all about by reading Dorothy Sayers’ The Lost Tools of Learning.

Anyway, there was that exchange, and one later in the ‘party room’ after the pizza had been handed out. Someone asked if they could eat, and the party supervisor said yes. “Wait!” I shouted to the kids, “what do we do before we eat?”

Time for Pizza and Prayer

“PRAY!” said every single one of those eighteen children. So we bowed our heads and blessed our food while the employees of Pump It Up looked on in amazement. I heard more than once that afternoon that this group of kids was one of the greatest they’d ever had in. I was glad they got to see the fruit of parents raisings kids in a Christ-centered life.

Parenting is rough, and some days I hold on by tenuous threads, but days like Thing 1’s birthday give me fuel to keep on trucking. They remind me of why I do this thing called motherhood – because God trusted me with these kids (for some strange reason), and it’s my job to teach them to love and honor Him in all that they do.

How we treat others and how we raise our children are our constant testimonies to the world. Show people that faith in Christ isn’t weird or backwards or inhibiting, but a way to live so that our children build each other up instead of tearing one another down.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.” –JC

With Jeff Atwater and Sarah Rumpf, taken with our permission and not by a stalker

On Saturday night, I was hanging out at a meet-and-greet in Orlando for Jeff Atwater when Leif called me. I snuck out into the lobby, where a few other people were milling around. It was pretty quiet, and the perfect place to talk to my honey for a few minutes, especially since there was an outlet, and my iphone was almost out of juice.

Like all good Apple girls, I always carry a charger in my purse if I’m going to be out for more than a few hours. I plugged in, sat on the floor (cord-length issues), and caught up a bit with my baby daddy.

I was telling him about something cool I’d gotten to do, and he was telling me something the cute the girls had done, and then I don’t remember because the following happened.

Like I said, there were a handful of people lingering in the lobby, but the events of the conference and the day had pretty much wound down. There was a middle-aged man that looked like he was strolling down the hall, and he stopped about 20 feet away from me to check his cell phone. That’s totally normal. At any given point at one of these political conferences, nine out of ten people will have a cell phone in their hand.

But then Creepy Stalker Dude carefully angled his phone, and I swear it looked like it was pointed right at me. You are sooooo paranoid, Jennifer, I said to myself. And yes, I call myself Jennifer in my own head when I’m trying to knock common sense into it. It’s what my mom did when I was a kid and even though I’ve never been in therapy as an adult, it’s not hard to connect the dots on that one.

And then.

The flash.

Yeah. Dude took a picture of me. I have no idea why. Did he want a picture of the ultra-famous*, glam-life living, political activist mommy-blogger formally known as Jenny Erikson? Because I totally would’ve posed for that picture. Did he think I was cute, and just want photo evidence that republicans don’t have to look like Newt Gingrich? Did I have a giant booger in my nose that fascinated him?

Honestly, the whole thing stunned me so much; I didn’t really know what to do. When the flash went off, my head snapped up, but he was already scurrying off. Of course hindsight being 20/20, I should have gone after him and taken his picture.

Well, I learned something for next time. And I hope he learned to turn the flash off. Amateur.

*Sarcasm

My favorite picture of Thing 2 and me, taken Christmas 2009 by Kristen Bons

Thing 2 starts preschool on Monday. After 3 ½ years of her glued to my hip on an almost daily basis, I’ve been asked a lot how I feel about this.

Right now I feel like I feel when I’m running, and just trying to make it to a certain predetermined goal before I stop or slow down. I can see my finish line. I usually feel like I’m going to throw up, because I usually push myself too far. I mute my ipod because the music becomes a distraction rather than a motivation. All efforts are put toward moving forward, each step, not stopping, knowing that once I make it, I will be better for it. Stronger. Able to go further or faster the next time.

That’s what I feel like right now. All I can see is the finish line. This race that I have been running for the last three years of trying to be a decent wife, mommy, and homemaker while simultaneously trying to launch a career in online political punditry, with no nanny or daycare.

I wouldn’t trade it, but most days there just aren’t enough hours. It is completely frustrating in one moment, and ultimately joyful in the next. Thank God for a cute husband that doesn’t mind if the laundry doesn’t all get put away, or stopping to pick up dinner on his way home.

Also thank God for Coke Zero, Advil, Clear Eyes, and sauvignon blanc.

And of course, these amazing little girls, who can drive me up the wall but also knock me over with laughter. This morning, I asked Thing 2 where Jesus lived, and she happily told me, “Um, in da Bible!” How cute and sweet is that?

A year or two ago, I took the girls dress shopping with me, and in the fitting room, Thing 1 told me I looked ready for the ball in a blue taffeta dress I was trying on. I bought it and every time I wear it, I feel ready for the ball.

I have a thousand memories like these; they are the moments that have made this achy tiredness worth it. Because right now? Right now I’m tired. I am ready to have some time to do my work with a small amount of peace.

My finish line is 16 whole hours a week to work without my eye twitching from being interrupted 27 times a minute with requests for snacks, announcements of bodily functions, demands for TV and/or junk food and the subsequent tantrums that occur when the answer is no.

I bet you I’ll be able to pack the majority of the 30 or so hours a week I work now into that time.

So on Monday, I will cross the line with a goodbye wave and a kiss to my baby, and I will clutch my side and catch my breath and feel the rush of accomplishment wash over me. I will thank God for my health and (relative) sanity, and I will sit and ponder what goal I shall set for myself next.

Because as hard as that last stretch always is … I do love to cross the finish line.

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in my lovely air-conditioned home, doing some research for a story on my shiny MacBook Pro. My kids were either doing homework or playing Polly Pockets, and I was keeping en eye on the clock because Thursday is piano lesson day, and I didn’t want to be late.

Around 4 p.m. there was that pop and a low buzz as every appliance and light bulb in my neighborhood shut down, followed immediately by silence. It happens occasionally (remember rolling black-outs?), so I told the girls to wait a minute to see if the power would come back on.

Nada. My laptop still had power, but with the wifi down, I couldn’t get online. My iphone said I was connected to the 3G network, but it wouldn’t connect to anything. I couldn’t even pull up Twitter or Facebook. It might as well have been the apocalypse, people!

Tried to text, but the service was sluggish. Power outage or not, it was time for piano. Except that the car was in the garage … with an electric garage door opener. There’s a manual failsafe in there for emergencies, but no way was I going to mess with that with two little kids in tow unless absolutely necessary. Piano was out.

Finally got a hold of my husband at work, who informed that power was pretty much down in all of San Diego, and a few other areas in southern California, as well as parts of Arizona and even Mexico. Since it wasn’t looking like the power would be back anytime soon, he shut the office down and hit the road. It took over an hour for him to make the normally 25 minute commute.

Anyway, we all eventually made it home, and I hand washed some dishes and made dinner on our gas stove, while frantically checking my phone for internet connectivity every 4 minutes. I don’t have a disease, I swear. I just like being connected. I can put the Internet away, so long as I know it’s there if I need it.

Once I gave up and tried to enjoy the Amishness of the situation, we had a pretty nice evening. After our candlelit dinner, we took the girlies for a walk to see the stars. I even broke out some glow sticks for them, which they thought were the greatest things ever.

We tucked them into bed together so they wouldn’t be afraid of the dark, and then we played gin rummy and chatted and tried not to sweat in our un-air conditioned home. Eventually we went to bed too, and it’s amazing what kinds of things you can find to do when there’s no laptop or TV to distract a happily married couple…

Overall, I’m glad we had the excuse to take a little break from our electrified life, but I won’t lie. When the house hummed back to life a little after midnight, I shed a little tear of happiness. And then I said hi to Twitter.

And all was right in the my world.