Adventures in Urban Parenting

On Saturday afternoon, Steve and I were sitting in our living room when we saw through the window a woman (slightly older, overweight, a little worse for the wear) on our porch. When she saw me through the window she said: "Can you come to the door for a second?" And I did, and she asked me if I knew where "Margaret" lived and I said I didn't think there was a Margaret on the block, but what address was she looking for, and she said 3504 Park Place, and I told her that it would be south of us somewhere and she said thanks, and walked off as I said "Good luck."

Steve was standing behind me at the door, and when she was almost to the corner, he said "Is she carrying our box? Yes, the postman just delivered a box -- he showed it to me through the window -- and she's carrying it."

I called after her: "Is that our box?" and she shrugged, barely looked over her shoulder and said no.

Steve said it was our box, so I -- barefoot -- started walking down the street after her, trying to close the gap between us. When I got to within 10 feet or so, I started talking to her again: "That's our box." And she snapped that it wasn't. I asked her to tell me what address was on it, and she said, "I TOLD you the address, it's 3504 Park Place." Then the postman rounded the corner and I asked him if he had delivered us a box and if that was it, and he said yes, and promptly starts chasing her down the street. So the two of them are jogging along -- neither of them in the best shape -- and the postman gives up and gets in his car to go find a police officer. I figure at this point, that while I am not so athletic, THIS is a woman I can catch.

So I start running after her, she's running along saying it's her box, I'm yelling that it's mine (all in bare feet, while holding my poor chest which is in some nursing bra and NOT enjoying this process -- even as I was doing it, the whole thing felt rather amusing) and then I yelled, as she turned the corner, "I have a two week old son and that's his food!"

She slipped into an alley, and by the time I got there she was in a back yard with the fence closed behind her. She said, "This is my back yard, do NOT come in." I stopped and said calmly, "I won't come in, I'll respect your property, but that's my box." As soon as she wasn't being chased anymore, she relaxed, and walked back to the fence to talk to me. She said again that it was her box, and I said, "Just show me the address, and I'll believe you, and I'll apologize." She pulled out the box from under her arm to look at the address and then made a great show of surprise: "Oh, I am SORRY. I apologize from the depth of my heart. I am so sorry" and handed me the box.

I smiled, as if I hadn't just been yelling and chasing this woman down the street, and said, "thank you, you have a great day" and walked away. . .

(It was, as it happened, a box of great clothes and blankets, from Steve's Aunt Linda and Uncle Denny. . . hopefully none of our other friends and family have sent boxes that have gone awry -- but if you know of a package we should have received, let us know!)