Operation Christmas Child: Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

Operation Christmas Child is in full-swing at St. Vital mall again. It's an appealing display with an attractive radio DJ, the mission of shoeboxes to be filled stacked around, taking up a popular section of the mall by Chapters book store and a fireplace surrounded by cosy sofas and chairs. Posters of smiling children and the words OPERATION CHRISTMAS CHILD are plastered everywhere. It's easy, catchy, and most importantly it appeals to our Western nature: Christmas equals charity, we like shopping, boxes are fun to fill, we like children, we like to feel good about ourselves.

And if we question charity for children, we're dicks.

Last night I watched family after family sign up for the cause, while volunteer after volunteer filled boxes and stacked them up. Nowhere is it mentioned on their posters or in their leaflets (again, smiling children plastered all over them) that Samaritan's Purse, the group that took over Operation Christmas Child, is headed by chief executive controversial Christian fundamentalist Franklin Graham - son of a more well-known TV evangelist Billy Graham and good friend of former President George W. Bush.

No mention is made of Franklin's comments that Islam is "wicked, violent and not of the same God" as Christianity, and the difference between the two is like the difference between lightness and darkness. He does tend to favour the dark bit, as he also referred to India as being full of "hundreds of millions of people locked in the darkness of Hinduism . . . bound by Satan's power."

In fact, while looking over the display that urges shoppers to make a child's Christmas morning one to remember, there is no mention at all of the fact that Christian literature will also be stuffed into those boxes along with Lego and other gifts that will create inequality and fighting amongst the recipients, or that according to the chief executive of Samaritan's Purse that it doesn't matter what you put in that box as long as you pay those transport fees because, "It is about introducing children and their families to God's greatest gift - His Son, Jesus Christ. As long as evangelism is the focus, God will continue to bless it."

Yes, you are sending a doll to a little girl somewhere in the world. You are also paying to send her bible stories because Franklin Graham thinks she needs to read them. And you are doing it even if she is Muslim, or of any other faith because Franklin Graham, right-wing Christian fundamentalist (who is against gay rights and feels women contemplating abortion should be forced to have internal ultrasounds and hear the babies' heartbeat) thinks her faith isn't good enough. At Christmas.

This isn't the worst thing Samaritan's Purse has ever done in the name of Jesus Christ. They were caught denying temporary housing in 2001 to earthquake victims in El Salvador unless they attended an evangelical prayer session first (afterwards, Graham gloated that they had converted 150 people to Christianity). Even earlier, in 1990, they sent over 30,000 Arabic bibles to troops in Iraq to handout to the defeated Iraqis. In Nicaragua in 1999, Samaritan's Purse used potential relief money during the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch to not help the homeless, injured and starving victims but to put on an evangelical concert for children, asking them to choose to be saved by Jesus in exchange for a box of gifts and a bible. Graham bussed in 50,000 children for his concert.

It is also the gift that keeps on giving, because Graham knows it could take more than a Pez dispenser to lure a child away from the religion of his parents and people. The box is given with the clarity that it is a "Gift from Jesus" (that's right, you and your kid don't get the credit) and the child is then enrolled to attend a further 10 lessons in bible study, regardless of their religion. And it's a pretty attractive deal to a child because there's a toy involved. And across the world while our children may be many colours, languages and religions the one thing that unites them all is there is nothing better than a toy.

While Operation Christmas Child is on at St. Vital mall I will be taking my Christmas shopping elsewhere. I have to, out of respect for the racially diverse staff who must work longer mall hours alongside this radical and hate-spreading religious group run by a rabid evangelist that preys on the poorest and neediest of our world. Out of respect for our children whose empathy and love for other children is being exploited. Out of respect for the children across the globe who don't celebrate Christmas because it isn't part of their religion and don't realise how much we selfishly and needlessly (and wrongly) pity them for it. This Christmas, fill a box of food for our local Harvest program. Bring some socks to the Siloam Mission for a homeless person's feet, or warm coats and mittens for their children. Donate toys to our Children's Hospital. Give what you can.

Put your heart in the right place, and not your money in Franklin Graham's pocket.

Christmas is coming!!

I've started planning my Christmas projects this week. Now that I've figured out how to sew, handmade gifts for relatives and my kids are playing a large role in this year's preparation. I've picked out some recipes, patterns and ideas and have a folder on my laptop that they are stored in.

Before you've wandered off muttering all sorts of nasty language at me under your breath, or yelled, "For fuck's sake, it's AUGUST!" at your screen, let me explain. I haven't had Christmas in two years, this is a lot of stored up creativity and shit pouring out of me.

Last year I was depressed. Like, bad. BAD. I have a wonky thyroid and last year it kind of snuck up on me. Well, that's not really right. Last year it kind of just stopped working and all of the busyness and bounciness I usually have just stopped with it. It was very gradual, I didn't really know until November 30th rolled around and I realised I hadn't started anything for Christmas -

And I didn't even give a shit about it.

I love Christmas. Not in a deck my house out with a bazillion reindeer way, or wear sweaters with snowmen way, or even in an advent calendar way. I spend most of the year picking out gifts, mulling over what to get someone and finding little things here and there to tuck away. I collect unique wrapping paper and tags, I even look up new and unusual ways to wrap gifts. I especially love homemade gifts. But, last year I couldn't even manage to make cookies. Not one single batch. I did buy some new wrapping paper, it was quite a feat and I actually walked around the store with the roll in my hand for thirty minutes, putting it back and picking it up again until Graham finally yanked it away from me and bought it for me.

I had never been depressed before, so was shocked when my usual approach of barrelling through things to get through the other side didn't work. It didn't work and it made it worse. I always thought depression was really painful, but it wasn't. I didn't lay in bed crying, or close the blinds, or want to harm myself. I didn't do anything. It was like I was stuck to wherever I was sitting. The energy to do anything, to even go to the mall just wasn't there. For the first time ever I looked at my beloved Christmas ornaments, the ones I'm excited to take out every year, and thought, "Christ, that's a lot of work."

Social gatherings were awful, I just didn't want to go because I'd have to make conversation and the effort to do so was just too great. I was a big, sad face on the end of the couch for months. Facebook was like a party I just couldn't walk into. I'd stand on the outside of it occasionally, hearing the music and seeing the odd person walk by a window, but to join in was too hard. I had nothing to say, nothing positive, nothing negative...just nothing. It was as if someone had opened my brain while I slept and scraped out all emotions, good and bad, and just left it empty.

Christmas is a really good time to be depressed if you're private about it like I was, because despite the odd gathering here and there people are too busy to notice you haven't showered in three days and have food on your shirt from two different meals. In that way I suppose it worked out, the holidays allowed me to duck out for awhile completely unnoticed. I managed to do the bare minimum by putting up a half-assed tree and getting a few gifts for my children (the rest of my relatives, unfortunately, didn't see their presents until around May when I came out of the fog) and we even went around to see some friends on Christmas Day, but I missed out on the fun of preparation and excitement of planning. Now that I am back to my usual self, I feel like it's been years since I had Christmas.

In a way, it has been.

So, yes. Let the excitement begin, because I've missed feeling this way and it is good to be back.

Only in Winnipeg

I moved to Winnipeg in 1999, and although I've been here for 14 years this September I don't consider myself from Winnipeg. Mostly as a distinction to avoid confusion, as Winnipeg is a close-knit city where many people relate to each other by asking a couple of simple questions - What area of the city are you from? Where did you go to high school? A couple of nods, a couple of names dropped, and Winnipeggers have the ability to know five or so of your cousins, or even possibly be a cousin. I don't dislike Winnipeg. I never really identified with it as my hometown, but recent events have made me so, so proud of it that I've become pleased to be a part of it. The tragic and devastating story of Lisa Gibson, driven to the depths of despair and dark tunnels of post-partum psychosis ending in the ultimate horror of taking her children's lives and afterwards her own, has shaken Winnipeg to the core. It's just not something you'd think would put Winnipeg on the map. However, right from the start, a compassion and understanding in the media and citizens of our city could be seen. A pace was set by our police force, adamant that Lisa's welfare was a top priority. Not a witch hunt, but a hope of finding her unharmed so she could be helped. There were no accusations of murder, no campaigns to find her when she was missing and bring her to justice, only a heart-hurting and sorrowful cry from the masses that feel that somehow, despite not knowing her, we all failed her and her beautiful babies.

We failed one of our own. An anguish was occurring amongst us and we never knew. I wept, not only for Lisa and her children but for those that weep around me.

A few Winnipeg Free Press columnists have questioned the public's mercy on this woman, wondering where the compassion was for Vince Li, the schizophrenic who beheaded a sleeping passenger on a Greyhound bus just outside city limits. Or if our gestures of peace and understanding for Lisa would have been the same had she not been white, middle-class and well-educated. Or, quite darkly, accused the public of only being sympathetic because she took her own life after. Motives have been contemplated, criticised and pondered upon. Cynicism is running quite rampant - not for Lisa herself, but for those that dare to mourn who may not mourn for others.

So, I ask, does it matter? Why cheapen the incredible heart of this city with wondering what could have made people care a little less? Why use a public position to criticise people for possibly not caring the same amount had a hypothetical situation occurred instead of the very real tragedy that was faced last week?

Shame on you, columnists. Stop whining about empathy equality and embrace the love and responsiveness this city had for one of its own, and see how this is the start, how this can help someone in need right now, somewhere. This isn't about Lisa being the right kind of woman, its about our city being the right kind of place for women - and in our world, we could use a lot more of that. The reaction was a very unique one, one you won't find anywhere, so with that I can say Only In Winnipeg - and for once, it is out of pride.

Fake Flowers Bring May Showers

I have a fake flower garden. It isn't mine, but as it is on my property the city says it is mine to do with as I please. My neighbour has set up a hot tub, a monstrous tent thingy, and a couple of barbecues in her Manitoba Housing backyard and has now run out of room for her fake flower garden. She has decided to remedy this by putting her fake flower garden in my yard against my house, limiting drainage and creating quite the eyesore. It looks like a roadside memorial. It looks like a small child died against the side of my house, and the neighbours have done a Princess Diana-esque job of remembering him. Included in this madness is a Welcome sign, an angel statue holding a globe-type thing, a ceramic turtle, some wood logs to keep it all in check, and fake dollar-store flowers.

I decided to speak to my neighbour and it went horribly wrong right from the start:

Me: Hi, my name is Carole and I live next door. I need to speak to you about your stuff?

Neighbour (looking directly at garden): What stuff?

Me: Your flower garden against my house. You need to move it.

Neighbour: As if you have a fucking problem with a fucking flower garden!


It went downhill from there with me asking her to remove it once more, and her slamming the door in my face. Later on I had gone out, and came back to her standing in her pyjamas (4pm) shouting at me that I should create a drain pipe from the eavestrough going around her garden and that would fix the drainage situation.

It didn't end well on my side that time, with me hissing "Get your shit out of my yard!" at her.

The flower garden is not big. It is not loud, it is not poisonous, it is not hurting anyone. But, this matters very little. It is the principle that matters. It is the principle that is loud and poisonous. It is the principle of it all that hurts. Well, ok. It doesn't hurt. But Christ, it is ugly:

It is nestled up to my house (the blue behind it.)There are also patio lanterns in it now so it glows at night.

I've tried on several occasions to get her to remove it. In protest, she has now tied her garbage can to my tree. In desperation I called the city mediator who has allowed me to remove it as it is considered "abandoned" property. He also offered to send her a letter to see if she wants to talk about it, I told him not to bother. We're way past sitting down now.

So, I'll put an open offer on my blog. Whoever has the time and inclination is more than welcome to come down and vandalise, remove, add to, or steal this flower garden beside my house. It is just sitting there, and is apparently legally mine now, and it is now yours to mess with and/or fuck up. My only two rules are no shit or piss, and do not do anything to my house or the surrounding yard, please. It is my yard and my house. This doesn't mean get creative with shit and/or piss, no shit or piss at all. You can add whatever you please - Buddy Christ statues will be greatly appreciated, as would tacky bobbleheads, gravestones (don't steal any, get your own), signs that attack my neighbour's virtue and chasteness and inability to get a job and work like a normal person, and christmas lights shaped like penises (not sure if these exist, but if they do bang on.) You do not need to stick to this list, these are only suggestions. Do not add fake flowers, she will like it and we want anything but that. She's also batshit crazy, you might want to wear some earplugs and a helmet.

I will post any pictures up on my blog, twitter, facebook or wherever your ego requires. I will also reward you with beer, good beer not something like Budweiser. This can be a group effort if we work together. I'm leaving the garden up until next Friday so that is ample time to work your magic, people.

The day Christmas almost died

Don't let the title throw you, I actually love Christmas. The gifts are a nice bonus to a beautiful holiday with lights, ornaments, decked out trees, a little booze (or a lot, depending on the year) and wonderful family and friends. We have lovely little traditions like opening Christmas pyjamas to wear to bed on Christmas eve, and Christmas day brunch after the gifts are opened. I collect ornaments for my tree, and delight in opening the well-packaged boxes I keep them in, looking each one over, and putting them on my tree - something I look forward to all year.

This year we have a new living room with much more space for decorations, get-togethers and the tree. I picked out a great spot, set up the tree (too many asthmatics in our house for a real tree) and fluffed out the branches, each one ready for an ornament. I took out my beloved ornaments, one by one, and carefully dangled them from the tree, taking care to space them out and give the tree balance. I took out Matthew's homemade crafts from daycare and school and found them places as well.

Next was a box of glass balls, with snowflakes and stripes. I picked it up, hugged it in a moment of sentimental crap, and removed the cover. But wait, what is that? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT???







Yup. THAT is a nasty, squashed, horrible-looking centipede-like monster bug on my beloved ornaments. The beloved ornaments that are so beloved that I just hugged them, and unintentionally the disgusting mutant bug creature as well. Irrational thoughts flooded my brain, and the desire to fling that box of glass ornaments as far from me as possible was almost too much to bear. I forced myself to lower the box back into the bag they were kept in, where of course a spider was making itself tea.

I don't mind spiders. Spiders are much like myself in that they would kill any type of bug on the spot if given the chance. Sure, we differ on what to do with the then-dead bug's corpse but aside from that we're pretty similar in that we'll happily share a living space with one another provided the other stay the hell out of our way. I name most spiders living in my house, turning them from a trespassing nuisance into a type of pet.

This was not a spider, and I kicked the other spider out for not doing its job very well.

The problem was the other ornaments that had no disgusting alien insects on them. What if this demon insect laid eggs inside my other ornaments? What if the cold of the basement didn't kill them but merely put them into an angry, hungry, dormant phase that would end in the warmth of my living room, and they would hatch and shatter my glass balls (even the shatter-proof ones) and land on the floor, fully grown with an adult appetite, looking for the blood of their sleeping victims? What if they could then crawl inside ME, laying eggs everywhere, which would hatch and shatter my not-shatter-proof body, landing on the floor...

OR, I could just throw them all out. ALL OF THEM ALL OUT. I stood contemplating this course of action, wondering how bad it would be to actually toss the whole lot out by the garbage can. We could start over! I could buy new ornaments, make new attachments to them, and never worry that they are possessed by what appeared to be Satan in insect-form.

I won't lie, there was some flailing.

Eventually I did calm down and checked every single ornament inside and out for eggs and baby mutant centipede-like demon bugs. I did throw out the ornaments inside the infected box, it was my civic duty and I was proud to do it. I brought it out to the garbage bin outside, stepped on the perpetrator for good measure (smeared it around as well, just in case it has an indestructible and protective outer shell and was only playing possum) and would have set it on fire had I had the proper structured fire pit that falls within city limit by-laws.

I may have run back inside flailing a little afterwards and left my boots outside to freeze, but that's just necessary caution and not neurotic in the slightest.

And quite frankly none of your business.

Driving Miss Molly

Molly is the West Highland Terrier I live with. Molly is a baffling mixture of well-trained dog crossed with mentally defunct toddler. Her level of training depends entirely upon her mood, the perceived prize, and the consequence. If the perceived prize outweighs the known consequence, Molly has no issues with going for the gold. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to determine what she sees as worth it because it isn't a fixed goal - it greatly differs depending on the day. What you're left with is a fairly unpredictable, fluffy, sweet yet determined terrier that is the best dog you've ever had and yet the worst dog you've ever known.

I'm aware that not everyone can handle my dog. I think my mother lives in fear that something might happen to us and she'll be left caring for our dog. We don't leave Molly with friends when we go out of town, we pay professionals at a kennel to anticipate her every need. We take precautions when going out and leaving our pet at home, the usual like taking her collar off so she doesn't accidentally hang herself on anything, and then the unusual of pulling the sofa away from the wall so she can't use it to climb to the windowsill and push out the air-conditioning unit and plummet to her death outside while trying to chase a squirrel on a neighbouring rooftop.

There are some days when I wish I could show everyone how lovely Molly can be - like when I pat the couch beside me and she hops up, curls up next to me and calmly nuzzles my hand for a pat. Or when the baby is on the floor rolling about and Molly sweetly checks on her every few minutes. And I wish they could see her funny habits, like when we're driving in the car and she sits perfectly still on her seat, staring forward and never jumping on me, only popping up at red lights to look into the car next to ours and then quickly popping back down to sit again the second we start moving. I don't know why these times are only small gifts reserved just for me. Molly's good behaviour has become the Mr. Snuffleupagus in my life.

Instead, most outings end up like earlier last week when I took Molly to the groomer and she shit on the floor in front of everyone while still attached to the end of her leash so I couldn't even pretend she wasn't mine. Her nickname at the groomer is Noodles. I can't begin to imagine what she did to earn that title.

Other star-power moments include when she meets someone new and wees a bit from excitement. Or when she meets someone she's already met many times before and wees a bit from excitement. Or when someone leaves the room and comes back and she wees a bit from excitement. Sometimes she just wees a bit...and isn't even excited.

I didn't know how Molly was going to adjust to the new baby. I was worried about jealousy, but quite the opposite has happened. Like all other members of my family, Molly greets Charlie in the morning and when we come home from an outing. Afternoons are usually spent on the couch nursing and cuddling Charlie with Molly squashed against my free side, having a snooze. I bring the baby into bed with me in the early morning for an extra hour of sleep, and Molly curls up with us and sleeps as well. When Charlie is rolling and playing on the floor Molly lays near her.

And when Charlie vomits, and I'm not fast enough, Molly eats it.

Raindrops on Roses and Breastpads on Kittens

Another gap in the blogging timeline. That's okay, you would have preferred it - getting to my ninth month of pregnancy and going seriously overdue did nothing for my personality. I did attempt a few posts which ended up being weird, distracted and half-hearted attempts at being funny/entertaining, but decided against inflicting them upon you all. They remain in my drafts bin, floating around like the soulless, paper-thin beings that they are.

Nearly nine weeks ago Charlotte (Charlie) was finally born. I was quite overdue and had stopped checking my facebook page and answering my cell. Everyday I was reminded that I was overdue, and every night I went to bed disappointed and convinced I was experiencing some sort of uterine failure. I had dreams of being pregnant forever, dreams where I actually wasn't pregnant but had a parasite that mimicked pregnancy, and even a dream in which I did have my baby but was too stupid to realise it.

See? I spared you all in just withdrawing from everything. I couldn't even stand myself towards the end.

I started to get desperate. My midwife gave me a labour cocktail consisting of disgusting things that smelled like peanut butter and furniture polish but I had to swallow it down twice to realise it didn't work. I had my membranes stripped, not once but twice. If you want to know what that feels like, get someone to punch you in the vag. Finally I tried acupuncture, which worked in starting labour an hour later. Charlie was born at home at 5:02am on July 6. No one has slept since.

That part isn't true, technically Graham has gotten a lot of sleep. Charlie prefers to sleep in the car, the catch being that I have to drive it and remain awake. I'm learning how to function on little sleep - at the very least, no one has any expectations of me at the moment. I can't remember anything at the grocery store, and spend my time aimlessly wandering the aisles and eventually leaving with nothing but butter and cookies and having to go back the next day...and leaving with butter and cookies again. I can't retain information and have attempted to price out diapers, but forget the price of the ones I'm trying to compare the second they are out of my line of vision. I'm usually quite good at prioritising, but that has gone down the shitter as well. I try to cut corners to get more rest, but cut the stupid corners - I can't leave a dish unwashed for a few hours, but for whatever reason I rationalise not putting down a change pad to "save time" and end up with an infant that has pissed and shit all over my duvet while I race to shove another diaper under her.

I'm not forgetting about romance, though. Just yesterday I crawled into bed to wake Graham up, waggling my breast pump in front of him to proudly show off the 3 ounces of breast milk I managed to squeeze out of my poor, overused boobs. This morning I passed him a diaper, proudly exclaiming "Feel how heavy it is! She's getting so much to eat!" not realising that the pride and joy I experience every time Charlie fills a diaper, which is testimony to her feeding well and everything going smoothly, doesn't register with Graham the way it does with me. For me, a full diaper is a sign of health, hydration and happy baby. For Graham, it's a crap basket. Each of his weary nods is met with fury from me, stomping, and exclamations of "WHY CAN'T YOU BE HAPPY WITH HOW MUCH OUR DAUGHTER IS PISSING AND SHITTING???" and sobs as he tiptoes out of the room and makes a phone call.

But it has been quite lovely. Charlie, more and more everyday, is beginning to resemble a snugly, happy and bright-eyed baby and less of the screaming milk-vampire. She's even graciously allowed me this time to blog, although I'm apparently taking too long and she's shoved her giraffe in her mouth in a greedy fashion, attempting to make me jealous of their new relationship.