My wife, Santa Maria, and I had made plans to go out last night. Faulty plans, I should add. Faulty plans that were mostly my fault. We'd been invited, through my job, to the fifth anniversary of a very fancy restaurant in Manhattan that shall remain nameless. We were excited to go. Santa Maria went to great length to find a babysitter who could work for the evening. Our regular babysitter couldn't work, but her cousin Evie could. Then, the night before, our eldest, Nina, kept us up with requests for water and trips to the bathroom. We didn't get any sleep, and we were exhausted, and I decided that we shouldn't go out. Santa Maria tried to cancel Evie, but she couldn't reach her because her cell phone was broken. She was coming in from her home in New Jersey to work the night for us and she is our regular babysitter's family; we couldn't send her away when she arrived. So we decided to go to a local restaurant that we adore, and that we don't often get to visit, Al Di La. Unfortunately, half of Brooklyn also adores Al Di La, and it was full when we got there. We were too tired to wait for a table so we decided to go home and pay the Evie for more than the hour we had been away from the kids. Evie protested, but in the end we paid her forty dollars. We were still hungry, so we ate the Bolognese I'd made that morning. I felt lucky to get the table.