The Kitchen Table

Learning to Put on Shoes

At Upe and Sharla's, we settled into the habit of taking shoes off. I did it before, but it was easier for all of us because of the bench conveniently located by the door. It meant easy access for Bama to a cadre of shoes, including Sharla's.
Sharla. Bama falls in love deeply and has several favorite friends, including Sharla. In the morning, we'd be up having first breakfast, and Bama would ask about Sharla, then demand Sharla in her most imperious tone: "Sharla! Sharla! Sharla!" The two of them would later have second breakfast -- Sharla's. Cereal at the table, Bama on Sharla's lap. It usually took two bowls.
It was no surprise that Bama gravitated towards Sharla's shoes, struggling to put them on and walk around the house. Eventually, she started in on her own shoes.

Oh, to watch your child learning something like putting on shoes. She loved it and it pissed her off. No help, Mama, she'd say, rolling over with a shoe in hand. Sometimes they went on backwards, often they went on the wrong foot, in several cases there were tears.
But don't help that kid. Back off!
Within a couple of weeks, she could put on anyone's shoes, including her own, easily. She gets them on the right feet, and can do most of the straps herself. Cool.

And, We're Back

Okay, we've been back for a while but there's been some catching up to do. Mister stayed in New York while Bama and I flew out to California to go camping for a week (!) with my family at family camp. He waited, and waited, and waited for our furniture. Ten days alone in an empty apartment with no me, no Bama, a mattress on the floor (new sheets! because I packed ALL of them for shipping. Yea), an 8-inch skillet, a baby fork, and his chef's knives. Guess how much fun he had. The highlights of his week was going to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and getting necessary odds and ends, including our awesome new garbage cans. Yes, I said it, awesome garbage cans. Side by side, mice and cockroaches aren't welcome.

Did I mention the cockroach that sauntered across the kitchen floor our first morning? Haven't seen it since. We'd like to keep it that way.

I have some catching-up to do, with pictures and stories, but I'm going to start where we're at and do the catch-up over the next couple of posts.

Welcome to downstairs. This is the office area between Bama's room and our room. Really? It doesn't look like an office? Don't let the boxes fool you. I've cleared it out a couple of the boxes, but unpacking is a bit like those puzzles (I'm showing one from ThinkFun) in which there's one empty slot to let you move parts around, hoping for a picture. I suck at those puzzles.

We'll get there. This weekend is a push-to-unpack weekend. And then a where-the-hell-are-we-putting-the-extra-stuff begins. I think we're going to have another storage unit, a small one, down the street for the things we can't fit here (like bins of clothes and diapers for baby #2. and what are we going to call that baby?).

I've had one crying jag, a couple nights ago, so I guess that's not over yet. Neither of us is convinced about New York, but we also know we've been here weeks and have a lot of time to figure out whether New York works for us. I don't know about Mister, but I am having a hard time putting my finger on exactly what is unsettling about life here.

Is it that the produce is so watery, mediocre, feh compared to home? I asked a farmer at one of the so-called Green Markets if her blueberries were organic. No, they are lightly sprayed, she replied. Some things need to be sprayed. Huh. Tell that to the farmers in California and Oregon who don't spray at all.

Is it that most of the mamas I see are put together, manicured, unsweaty while I'm schlepping along in Bay Area frump?

Is it the fear of decaf at nearly every ladeda coffee house (Third Rail included)? (The coffee guy at the Hester Street fair, while grinding Mister's beans for his per-cup, said decaf was too difficult. Really? Do those little beans give you a hard time when you try to get them in the grinder?)

Is it that Bama needs a few friends to play with? There are no drop-in places? Is it that New Yorkers, by my friend Bryan's description, are always in a hurry, live exceptionally busy lives, whatever?

It's another universe and we're adjusting, but it will take a while.

Things I'm appreciating and, in some cases, love, love, love:

The plethora of parks, many of which have water sprays for kids. Weekend markets like the Hester Street Fair.

Movies in the park (free), slow weekends with Bama and Mister, the subway, and fireflies.

Activities for kids like art in the park (courtesy of the Battery Park Conservancy, why don't California parks have conservancies? Services and cleaning at your park, funded by you, sure, but wow!). Two weeks ago, Bama was given a tie-dyed shirt at Washington Square Park, made for her (if she was older, she could have dyed her own).

Did I say we'll adjust?

 

Baby Making

Mister and I went through IVF to conceive Bama. We are not the only ones we know who've done this, in fact, more people than I want to count are going through IVF or IUI to conceive.

It's not a club I wanted to belong to. Our clinic is on the fifth floor of a building that has a spectacular view of the bay. The people who take the elevator to the fifth floor are only going to the clinic, which is the whole of the floor. In general, if you see a grim-looking woman or couple, they are going upstairs.

A fertility clinic is the place of dreams. Each trip to the clinic brings you closer to the dream -- or at least you hope that it does. It also might not, which is why we look so grim when we enter. We hold our breaths. It's one big inhale in the elevator and an exhale, or sob, on the way down.

Even if you're moving in the right direction, each stage of the process is wrought with anxiety. Are your follicles going to show an egg in progress? Is the uterine lining thickening? Did you miss your cycle or are you on time? There isn't much that is fun about it though it is amazing. 

When I walked in today, I had much less of the anxiety than I did before. We have a baby. We have Bama. And, while I would like another, I'm so caught up in how incredible she is, that I don't have time to fret or feel sorry for myself or hate anyone else for being pregnant when I'm not.

Because that's the other part of all of this. Women, and men, who cannot get pregnant tend to not like those who can. We try. Lord knows I tried. My best friend told me she was pregnant. I burst into tears after we left the restaurant. I was happy for her, but I ached. We stopped going to the baby-required farmers' market in our neighborhood. I really couldn't keep it together around swelling bellies and strollers and maya wraps when I had none of it.

I don't think I went totally off my noodle. We have friends who did. Friends who lost friends. I think I managed to keep mine, barely, in some cases, but they are still around. We even made some new friends. We ate a lot of ice cream with the Footles. I knit a lot with Joe the Pirate Monkey's mother. I found an acupuncturist I really like.

This time, I'm focused on what I have and am trying to stay in the present.

So far, so good.

Sometimes Daily Flower - Brains in the Tree

Sometimes Daily Flower, originally uploaded by gabbyenoaktown.

Brains in the tree? What is this thing? It's about the size of a regular grapefruit. Bama and I saw this in Ashland way back in August when we were out for a walk. A tree down the street from our house was covered in them.

Chaos Yields Pretty Toes

A couple of months ago, Mister surprised me with a "groupon" coupon for Mani & Nanny, a nail salon in San Francisco that includes on-site childcare. Wow! I had a few start and stops trying to find someone to make the trek with me. After all, it's one thing to say you want to load up your baby and go out for a pedicure and another thing to do.

Yeah Tia B! Always game for an adventure! We agreed to meet at my house at noon, then caravan to The City for our mama's afternoon delight.

And here's where things went nutty. Lentil went down for her morning nap and I went with her. I set my alarm for 10:15 to give me time to change and get her lunch ready before she woke up. Yeah. I snoozed my alarm until 10:45 when her chatter forced my hand. Up and out of bed, dress Lentil, dress Mama. Try to sort out my new haircut (little luck), pack my make-up bag, get a purse, make an omelet, entertain my girl, find some shoes, find the shoes again. Lentil's toy of choice this morning? A bag of OB tampons in the bathroom that she upended. She sorted, stacked, put them back in the bag, on the shelf. A questionable toy, perhaps, but they won't kill her and her cognitive development was a go!

So. 11:55, I'm buckling Lentil into her highchair when the doorbell rings. Hello! I run around packing up my bag, grabbing extra diapers, finding clean spoons and off we go. In the car, on the freeway, I see that my gas tank is not only close to empty, which is dipping below the E line -- and we have to get on a bridge. Never in my driving life have I run out of gas. Ever. Today, with Lentil in the back and a bridge to cross, would not be a good first time. I cross my fingers AND realize I do not have my cell phone.

At the toll crossing, two giant CalTrains trucks block the Fasttrak lanes because they have to clear the wreck of what is either a knucklehead who tried to use the lanes to scoot ahead of everyone else, or zipped in at the last minute. We go through a regular lane with the nicest toll booth operator ever. Cross the bridge, into The City and up Market. On Divisadero, it finally occurs to me that the address isn't between Waller and 14th, but is 1.6 miles away, down Divisadero and past a bunch of road work. Then we need to park because now we're by one of UCSF's campuses and lower Pac Heights and Lentil's hungry.

We park separately, meet at the door, rush in (because of course we're really late at this point though I'm not quite sure of the time seeing how I don't have my phone), hand off our kids to the smiling nanny and take our seats in the the comfy chairs. It's difficult to give scale, but those are my fingers in the corner of the picture, and that's the nanny monitor in the upper corner. We could see what was going on in the playroom from our chairs. We could hear the girls crying, first Cindy Lou Who, then Lentil. I could see Lentil's toes in the video and we could see the nanny trying to soothe her. The owners asked if we'd dropped the girls off with other daycares. Um, no. And of course, a normal parent would spend some time helping their child acclimate, but not us. We waved and ran off (lesson learned: slow introduction).

We watched the girls on the monitor for a while before they were brought back out to us. The breaking point came when we could see on the monitor that Lentil was in tears (again) and Cindy Lou, who seemed okay, was suddenly in need of toweling off. She'd had one of those horrible moments that babies have -- air? hysteria? and a little vomit.

 

Cindy Lou recovers thanks to Mama-cuddles.

 

Lentil, sniff, sniff.

Our story has a happy ending, but it's not quite over. My gift certificate covered both of our pedicures ($30 each, pricey) and half off the baby-sitting (normally $10 per child). As we were discussing the fees and tip, Tia B realized her wallet was missing. Uh-oh! After much debate over amounts and juggling some of the tip around (because we only had some much cash on hand), I paid the baby-sitting and left tips, then gave Tia B my debit card so she could pay her garage parking fee. Good idea, yes?

Except that on the way to the parking garage she remembered it's cash only. There's an ATM, but she doesn't have my pin. Her husband is in a meeting. She contemplates calling her father to get her cash (how this would work, since he's near San Diego, is unclear to me as I think about this now). But! The garage changed its policies and accepts MC and Visa. Tia B is good to go.

We met up at home, napping girls in our cars, and sorted some clothes I'd bought second- (or fifth- as it seemed) hand. Our toes are beautiful, the girls are happy. We're totally going to do it again.

The finished product!

Kitchen Help

We have a lot of cookbooks. A lot. Two bookcases (the tall ones) stuffed with books. Oh, we weeded a few out. There are some with nary a drop of oil or puff of flour tarnishing their pages.

But it's (especially) Mister's thing, and it feels comforting to have them.

Here are a few shelves. Three, and only partial shots of them, of the 10 or so?

The go-to's:

• How To Cook Everything: Simple Recipes for Great Food
• How to Cook Everything Vegetarian: Simple Meatless Recipes for Great Food
• Fish Forever: The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Selecting, and Preparing Healthy, Delicious, and Environmentally Sustainable Seafood
• Bouchon
• A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table
• Breakfast, Lunch, Tea: The Many Little Meals of Rose Bakery
• The Zuni Cafe Cookbook: A Compendium of Recipes and Cooking Lessons from San Francisco's Beloved Restaurant
• Sunday Suppers at Lucques: Seasonal Recipes from Market to Table
• A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes
• The Art of Simple Food: Notes, Lessons, and Recipes from a Delicious Revolution
• Super Natural Cooking: Five Delicious Ways to Incorporate Whole and Natural Foods into Your Cooking
• I Am Almost Always Hungry: Seasonal Menus and Memorable Recipes

The bakers:

• Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentine Way (technically this is not baking)
• Baking Artisan Bread: 10 Expert Formulas for Baking Better Bread at Home
• The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion: The All-Purpose Baking Cookbook
• The Bread Bible
• Home Baking: The Artful Mix of Flour and Traditions from Around the World
• Bread Alone: Bold Fresh Loaves from Your Own Hands
• Secrets of a Jewish Baker: Recipes for 125 Breads from Around the World
• Bread: A Baker's Book of Techniques and Recipes

 

The picklers and some breakfast:

• The River Cottage Cookbook
• The Good Egg: More Than 200 Fresh Approaches from Soup to Dessert
• Eggs
• The Joy of Pickling: 200 Flavor-Packed Recipes for All Kinds of Produce from Garden or Market
• Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It: And Other Cooking Projects
• Eat What You Want and Die Like a Man: The World's Unhealthiest Cookbook
• Ball Complete Book of Home Preserving

Someone helped me clear the bottom shelf.

 

And she did a bit of sorting, flinging useless items to over her shoulder.

Sew Proud of Myself

I liked to think that I could sew. Notice, it's in the past tense. Because I was working on a pattern (something I'm making to sell) and realized, no, I really don't know what I'm doing. When I brought it up from the basement to show Mister, I had to laugh. It was awful. "It is clear I need to take a sewing class," I announced. While I was figuring out some sewing techniques, I was fumbling around in the sloppy sewing dark. My first French seam technically works, for example, but it's not beautiful and not even.

So, a couple of weekends ago, Cake and I took a class at KnitOneOne, a sewing/knitting studio in Oakland. I'd helped Sile, the owner, out over the summer by making snacks and tidying up during the teen summer session. In trade, I received class hours. On to Kira K.'s sewing class! Kira had taught the summer session for teens so I knew how patient and meticulous she was. I needed a bit of that. 

We made lounge pants. Mine, which I'm wearing at the moment, are huge. A little long and I could take the waist in a bit more, but they are comfortable and loungy, as they should be. I bought enough fabric to make Lentil a pair, and a dress, and another pair. We don't want to be too matchy-matchy because that's too creepy-puff-paint-sweatshirt-motif-mommy for me. 

What I appreciated was how easily some of the techniques I'd been trying fell into place. I came home, finished my pants and made Lentil a pair of leggings from an old sweater (not original, but I like them and will probably make more and sell them on The Salted Dog). In doing so, I mastered the overlock. I can see why people like BaMa, who recently purchased one, move on to sergers. 

When I finished the leggings, I moved on to a baby shower gift for my friend Ellie. I'm also knitting her bebe a sweater, but in the meantime, I made this bib (and one for Lentil) from this remnant fabric -- ooh, aliens with many eyes! 

 
The backing is a bamboo fleece, which the woman at Piedmont Fabrics swore would be fabulous and is. It is soft, absorbent, and lays well. It's also $25 a yard, which would yield about 9 bibs (wow! $$$). In doing this project, I tackled the button hole. I can't say they were beautiful, but considering the thickness of the fabric, I'm okay with how they turned out. I used this tutorial to understand the Brother buttonhole foot, but I found it via SewMamaSew's buttonhole tutorial series.

In the second picture, I'm proudly showing the hole where I flipped the bib inside out. While I was sewing, I was listening to The Windup Girl and in sewing glee/book focus I zipped all the way around, forgetting to leave a hole. At least the seams were even. (I fixed it later.)

For me, the most useful part of Kira's class was finding clarity in instructions that were slightly out of focus for me. My mother and step-mother are regular seamstresses (my mom made a lot of my clothes when I was little; my step-mother made her own -- first -- wedding dress, our dresses for her wedding with my father) but I never sat with them and actually learned what to do. Most of what I did seemed to make sense, even if it was a little sloppy around the edges. 

Now I'm going back to my original project, which uses recycled sweaters in a children's garment. When I make the first one I'll post it. Those, I plan to sell.

(Speaking of selling things, I have three Tasty Hats to whip out for a consignment offer down the street. It will be interesting to see how they do.)

Wheezy? No, Croup, Thanks.

 

What a week. On Sunday, Lentil was wheezing when I nursed her at 11 o’clock, but  within a few hours, it had worsened. She had a bark and cough. She sounded like a seal pup. We talked about taking her to Children's, hut by the time we took stock of our situation, we opted to wait until our pediatrician's office opened for drop in.

Mister took her in. They didn't see our regular pedi, but saw the doctor who helped us out in January when Lentil was so sick. Based on what Mister told her, she thought Juniper was having an allergic reaction to something that triggered asthma. She prescribed albuterol and a spacer (a device to help babies inhale the albuterol since they can't hold their breaths). She slept in our bed last night (I washed everything in her bed) so we could listen to her breathing. Same as Sunday. At 3:10 or so, we tried the albuterol – a total nightmare -- but she was hysterical and no better so we decided to take her to Children's.

Imagine this scenario: dark room, baby who coughs herself awake because she can’t breathe, then back to sleep again.  Mister and I fumbled with the albuterol and spacer, snapped at each other in our fear. A little voice in my head kept saying, he can’t see anything, because it was so dark and Mister is so very blind without his glasses. I held her for the first round of albuterol, Lentil hiccupping and pushing against the mask and me. Mister held her for the second round. It left her angry and more frightened then before. I said, “Let’s take her now.”

Here’s the thing. When you have a sick child, you want to protect her at all costs. Then there’s the other voice, which asks if you aren’t over-reacting and silly. I suspect a lot of parents do this, second-guess themselves for fear of being regarded as foolish by doctors. Since we’ve had a couple of good scares with Lentil this year, I hope that I become more comfortable with looking foolish.

At Children's Hospital, the nurse immediately diagnosed her as having croup. The resident and the attending confirmed croup with possible stridor. Croup is the cough and husky voice. It is gnarly sounding. Whoa, doggy. We didn't see it coming, and neither will you.

Croup is a viral infection that settles on the voice box, in the throat. Stridor is difficulty breathing. They are related but not the same. Of the two, stridor is the more serious as croup is loud and scary sounding, but stridor means the child can't breath.

She was given two different kinds of medicine, a steroid liquid (oral) and epinephrine for the breathing. We're on day 3 which is supposed to be the worst. [Note: we’re on Day 5 today.] It's lousy since she's also teething. Wednesday night was a humdinger: Tylenol for teething, humidifier for breathing, Mama sleeping in the fold-a-way.

I posted an update to FB about her croup to FB. Immediately, friends commented about their own experiences -- most of their kids had more than one instance of croup. A few were surprised (and indignant), as we were, that the  doctor misdiagnosed her croup since it should be obvious.

Note: the hospital paperwork says its highly contagious until the child starts feeling better.

Anyway. We're fine. She'll be fine.We didn't have any experience with croup and didn't identify it ourselves (nor did the pediatrician). It always gets worse at night. If you think your child has it, take him/her in for assessment. Lentil was mild/moderate so they sent her home. Moderate/severe gets you a bed.

And ... I don't think I've noted before about the care at Children's Hospital, but it's outstanding. In the picture, Lentil's looking at Dr. Erin's beads and duck on her stethoscope. The nurses and doctors are gentle with the children. When Dr. Erin came to check on us before we left, she played peek-a-boo with Lentil before coming in the room. Make your child feel better emotionally and physically? Yay!

Vomit, Ants, and Other Stuff

A couple of weeks ago, Mister, Lentil, and I packed up the Jeep and headed to Point Reyes Station and on to Marshall and The Marshall Store to meet up with BaMa and co. for oysters. This was a major undertaking, as we had a time to be in Marshall to meet up with the BaMas and we wanted to bookend the trip with Lentil's naps.

I love the drive to Point Reyes. We travel across the bridge, snaking up 101 and then Sir Francis Drake through Marin. I'm not unusual in having a love-hate thing with Marin. It's bucolic, perfect for cycling, too white, too hot, wonderful, green, obnoxious. I wouldn't turn down a house, but I'm certain that Mister and I aren't cut out for Marin life. We don't have enough money, aren't old hippies, and he hates the heat.

Further up, though, is perfect for us. One day Mister and I would like to live in Point Reyes Station (or thereabouts). He proposed to me at Limantour Beach, using oysters from Hog Island Oyster Company to throw me off the scent. (He thinks I was surprised, which I was, despite my brief thought that his hand was in his pocket too long as we crossed the sand. Who crosses a beach with his hand in his pocket except someone who has a big fat diamond ring in it? But he'd told me three times he wasn't ready to propose so I snuffed the thought.)

The Marshall trip. Ah. Oysters that tasted as though they'd been pulled from the sea just for us. Mister and I, as usual, ordered too much. Maybe that was my fault. Mister was outside with Lentil, leaving me in charge of the menu. Crab sandwich? Yes, please. Ditto BBQ'd oysters (OH MY!!), fish tacos (spicy and delicious!), and clam chowder (I had to try it but would pass next time). BaMa's son declared an undying love for oysters (his first) and immediately set about planning his return trip to Marshalls.

The next morning, we were visited by the Footles and two portions of bacon, the last from their Bacon of the Month club stash (a present from Mister). Oysters and bacon in the same weekend. I love my life.

About three hours later, I said, "Heh, I'm feeling a little pukey." Thirty minutes later, so was Mister. We tagged teamed bathroom visits, vomiting more violently than I have in recent memory, which includes my so-called bachelorette party. Oy. What a bad idea.

Twelve hours or so later, we were both done puking but our innards were sore and we both felt like the Mojave Desert. It took a few more days before we felt back to normal. Initially I blamed sausages, but then Mrs. Footle came down with it. The BaMas were felled. Our friend Pacelet succombed. Others took ill. It wasn't food poisoning but a one day killer puke maker.

Lentil didn't get it, phew! But when you spend a lot of time on the bathroom floor, you have time to reflect on things like, say, the ants that are coming back from under the toilet. What do these things want? We get them in ones and twos, the little bastards. They tool around Lentil's room, and especially her bed. I hit the roof when I found a party going on at the foot of her crib. I think of us as being reasonably clean people. We change our sheets, wash our dishes, take out the trash. Ants make me feel dirty, like I've done something wicked and am paying for it with tiny moving spots. I get that ants are part of the cycle of life and we're doing our part to reduce our garbage, be kind to the earth, so on. But I'd pour poison straight into every ant hole and anthill on our property if I could. 

Big Week: Big Travels

I cannot pretend that this is a well-written post, but it's written.

Lentil and I had been on the go, or so it seems, for the better part of the last week. Mister dropped us off at the airport last Sunday (now almost two weeks ago_ so that we could catch her first flight on an airplane. First class, no less.

We flew to Orange County for a conference sponsored by the US Holocaust Memorial Museum that four teachers, including me, organized for other teachers. I've done a couple of conferences with the USHMM, including its Belfer Conference for Teachers, but I did not do the museum's next step, its fellowship, because we were working on getting pregnant. I was surprised and honored to be asked to help with the Belfer Next Step, the Orange County conference (only two of the teachers asked to organize the BNS, which are regional, are not fellows).

We started planning the conference in December, 2007. I wasn't pregnant, but by the next year, when we had the second planning meeting, I'd had Lentil. The conference was planned, in large part, via email and the occasional phone call.

My mother drove down from the Sierras (wow!) so that she could watch Lentil while I was at the conference. It all went smoothly, even with the three of us sharing a dorm room. I'd get up with Lentil, nurse her, walk two blocks to the center (thank you to Chapman University for hosting) and be with my group. My mom would show up around lunch and we'd eat together. She'd come back for dinner. On the last day, I walked around with Lentil while my mother listened to a Holocaust survivor's story as she'd never heard one tell a story before. I thought it was an important event, and although all the stories are different, I've seen several speakers. My mother won't watch Holocaust movies; this was a moving experience for her. He told his story, wept a little, laughed, and showed that he survived even when the odds suggested he shouldn't have. (Many survivor stories are punctuated with moments in which the coin could have flipped oh, so easily.)

I haven't been doing much of my Holocaust curriculum work because I've been busy -- planning for Lentil, having Lentil. The conference got me back on my feet, so to speak. Reading, watching movies. Holocaust/genocide educators are an interesting bunch because they are passionate people and passtionate about a topic that many think is bleak. It can be. But there is great hope that in teaching Holocaust curriculum, we investigate our past and help develop a better future. (That sounds like a tag line; I apologize.) We're like band geeks but it's oh, so much weirder to be a genocide geek. Yes, I know that sounds bad, but if you get people talking about books or methodology or whatever, it's hard to break up the conversation. Thus, geek.

I took a leave of absence next year (well, I was granted a leave, which surprised me given I'd taken half this year off) to be with Lentil. I cannot fathom teaching full time, or even part time, and managing my paper load and student needs with my child. I am lucky that my husband and I are in agreement that being home is what is best for Lentil. But, what the conference reinforced is how much I love working with other teachers. There is something in that that seems manageable while raising a child. That's another topic for rumination.

Lentil traversed these days in the able hands of my mother and with great dignity and grace. She looked at the sky and trees, touched grass, napped with her grandmother, and brought much joy into my day. The three of us made the long drive home from Orange County on Wednesday afternoon. It took a long time, punctuated by stops in dry winds along I-5.

Papa couldn't have been happier to see such haggard creatures. Phew! My welcome gift? My car was broken into that night, which meant Lentil and I were stuck at home for the next couple of days. After our big trip, that wasn't such a bad thing.