The other morning, at around 7 am, I heard someone clanging around in the recycling out the side of the house. I was getting the girls up and dressed, and I stopped to open the window and peer out. I saw a bedraggled looking woman with bashed-out teeth going through our bottles, stuffing some into her coat. I said hello through the screen, and she looked up at me and laughed sheepishly. “I’m just taking a few bottles.” she said. “I hope that’s okay.” “Sure.” I said. I decided she obviously needed them more that we did. “Take all the bottles you want.”
“What do you get for bottles now, anyhow?” she asked me, as if making casual conversation in a grocery line-up.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” I said, backing away from the window to help my 6 year old untangle her pants.
My 3 year old poked her head around. “Hi.” she said to the woman going through our bottles.
“Hello sweetie! What’s your name?” the woman said.
“Ella.” Ella answered in her tiny voice. “What’s yours?”
“My name is Eileen. How old are you?”

The whole thing had started to get a little weird. The whole situation was a little too “chummy” for my liking. I didn’t want her thinking she could come back for the lawn chairs or the kids’ bikes. Also, the idea of my kids befriending the local transients made me slightly uncomfortable.

I told Ella to get down from the window and to start getting dressed. But she really wanted to talk to Eileen. I insisted she get down—explaining that the woman was a stranger and we shouldn’t talk to strangers—and Ella was visibly upset by the whole thing. Iryn, my 6 year old, was confused too. “But you were talking to her!” She said adamantly.

I closed the window and started getting the girls ready. The whole interaction had felt strange and confusing—not really the part about Eileen, but more how I had reacted to my fear and had not known how to respond. I tried to explain it to the girls: “The woman was stealing from our yard. And I think she had a bit too much alcohol to drink, so I don’t feel comfortable with you talking to her.” I said.

But this felt so inadequate. Was I teaching them to turn a blind eye to suffering? Worse, was I teaching them to put people into categories—all of a sudden now every homeless person in the world drinks too much alcohol and steals bottles?

But at the same time, she was in our yard, going through our stuff—okay, our garbage—but still. Something just felt a little bit off to be saying, “Hey! How’s it going? Top of the morning to ya!” You know?

In my pre-kid life, I probably would have invited the woman in for breakfast. Or I would have maybe suggested we grab a bite to eat downtown. I used to do things like that. But with kids, it’s not so easy. I can’t just invite some unknown and intoxicated woman in for breakfast anymore. But I don’t want to teach my kids to be overly afraid either.

Later that afternoon, Iryn didn’t want to go out into the back to look for the cat, as she usually likes to do. She said she was scared of “the lady”.
She said “the lady” in a ghostly sort of way, like she was saying “spoooooky”.

“Laaaayyyyydyyyyyyyyyy”.

Now, see that’s exactly what I didn’t want to have happen.
It’s hard to know what to do sometimes. I reassured her as best I could, explaining that our yard is safe, but that if a stranger ever came around, it would be best to come inside just in case. I mean we DO live right across the street from a very happening drug deal spot (Iryn calls "them" druggers)

“She seemed nice though.” I said. “I think she was just hungry.”

Iryn looked thoughtful. “She could take our tomatoes and cucumber.” She was referring to our anaemic looking vegetable garden across the yard, where a few pale cherry tomatoes and one single cucumber were dangling pathetically from their vines.
“Yes, I guess she could.” I said.

“Then, out of the blue, a few days later, on the way home from school, she said, “Mama, I know what I would do if I was a mom and a homeless lady came into our yard. I would get some food and I would get a towel and I would put the food in the towel and wrap it around a long stick.” I knew what she was talking about. She was talking about making a “hobo stick” which we sometimes do with a bathroom towel and piece of old doweling. I thought ‘how sweet’.

She continued. “And then I would go out and say, ‘Here. Take this food, and then, please leave. And if you don’t leave, I will knock you unconscious with this big stick.”

Right. Who knows where she comes up with these ideas? But at least it’s opened the whole topic up for conversation, and I guess that’s better than nothing.