We are in the middle of a sickness. Not a metaphorical the-world-is-all-going-to-pot sickness, but literal sickness. The flu.
On Monday Alex had gotten the bug and decided to work from home. This never goes as nicely as it sounds. When he first got his job and heard about the option of occasionally working from home we were so excited. I had images of him settled in at the table with his laptop, productively typing away, while still somehow perfectly meshing our daily activities into his agenda. It was going to be the solution to so many problem days. New baby at home? Work from home! Alex is feeling sick? Work from home! Mama is overwhelmed? Work from home! Turns out, the whole “work from home” thing is not as idyllic as we had supposed. It generally ends up being the kids crying to sit on daddy’s lap while I grumpily wish that he would eschew his work duties and take care of them so I can have a break and the day ends with him usually bringing his laptop to a nearby coffee shop to escape the pandemonium for a few hours.
Well, he worked from home. He set up his laptop on the dining room table and typed away. He held a crying baby on his lap and typed. I tried to keep the toddler busy so that daddy could work. We were all sick but we did our best to get some rest and let daddy work. But I was on day three of being sick. And day three of being sick doesn’t make you the most equipped to keeping a baby and a toddler away from daddy while he works, and keep your sanity. Maybe I kind of forgot to eat lunch. Maybe I kind of forgot to be kind. Maybe I kind of exasperatedly whisper-shouted “Oh my GOSH! I am going to KILL myself!” when the baby dragged the giant Richard Scarry book over to me to read for the seven hundredth time that day.
Alex’s head snapped up from his computer and asked if I needed him to read the book. “No,” I sighed. “I’m just hungry. And I don’t know what to eat!”
He volunteered to get get pizza from Papa Murphy’s. I sighed that that would be ok. He volunteered to stay with the kids and let me go get the pizza from Papa Murphy’s. I countered that I didn’t even think I could MAKE it to Papa Murphy’s in my current condition. He took his cue and preheated the oven before he went out the door.
Once the pizza was cooked and consumed, everyone’s outlook brightened considerably. As I was recounting this story to my sister she commented how funny she thought it was that Papa Murphy’s was the solution to our afternoon meltdown.
I looked at her and said, “Papa Murphy’s is always the solution. I can’t think of a single problem where Papa Murphy’s is not the solution.”