Master 14 has an emergency: after three days of unpacking boxes, we haven't found his favourite computer keyboard.
We won't get reconnected to Wi-Fi until Monday, so it hardly matters. Unless you're a teenage gamer addicted to clicky keys - in which case, it matters heaps.
Many of us have the equivalent of a personal pandemic running parallel to coronavirus. We're trodding a combination of life's prickly weeds: relationship breakups, serious illness, estrangement from family, job loss and mental health issues. Throw in a global viral outbreak and accompanying economic crisis, and you've got yourself a personal and planetary pickle. It's extra sour and it stinks.
My family's hurdle the past week has been moving house. The event has produced anxiety, stress, exhaustion and tears. We're not physically sick - just sick of shifting. This is our fourth move in as many months.
We can stay put for a while. At least, that's what we hope, but you never know …
Here's what I'm sure of - caretaking happens even in the time of coronavirus. Friends and family demonstrate concern by checking in, by performing selfless acts like cleaning a refrigerator, washing walls, lending air beds and unpacking boxes. They gift us bubbles, homemade plum chutney and dark chocolate dusted almonds. They provide advice and a sounding board between their own trips to the supermarket, where they are definitely not buying up forests of toilet rolls or vats of wine and beer.
Because of Covid-19, locals like Rosie McGovern and Ali Karsant (who we wrote about Thursday) are among the many people offering to help those who may already be isolated - elderly people and folks with chronic illnesses.
In times of crisis, we hunker down. And we help. The Bay is full of clever multi-taskers who look after themselves, pulling down their own oxygen mask so they can aid their neighbour.
Someone wrote social distancing is not social disengagement. We need to stay connected, even if it's online or on the phone.
Denying this is an anxious time is as pointless as trying to teach my dog French. I don't need a pantry stockpile to prove I'm worried - fearful about finances, health, my parents in the States, the global economy, and the stable genius running America.
Thank goodness Kiwis have intelligent leaders among major political parties who know how to get stuff done. Compared to the US, New Zealand is a model for competence and collaboration. No wonder billionaires choose Aotearoa as a preferred site for riding out an apocalypse.
Also, I'm thankful for public health care. The host of a podcast called An Arm and a Leg, which examines the high cost of medical insurance and treatment in the US, said he hears from many overseas listeners who realise how good they've got it. He suggested the slogan for American health care could be, "Making people in other countries feel really great".
A recent story in US News and World Report said costs for pneumonia hospitalisation without complications in America averaged nearly US$10,000, and even people with insurance could expect out-of-pocket costs of about $1500. Being sick with Covid-19 sounds miserable. Getting whacked by medical bills would only compound the pain.
We're not at the end of some doomsday rope. Instead, we're riding out an event that's been called unprecedented. We cope in our own unique ways. Some of us (okay, me) are buying comfort food from our home countries because it provokes nostalgia and adds excess weight, which we may need if we face rationing (that's a joke).
We're bracing for more cancellations and closures and trying to discern whether to put our teenagers to work packing kiwifruit if their learning shifts online.
We're checking on each other and making jokes at work - while we still have an office to go to.
Here's another thing I'm sure of - it's more important than ever to seek solace in sweet, small moments, which are all we ever have, anyways.
Watching a beam of yellow span the horizon above the sea at sunrise is such a moment.
Running with my daughter and my friends provides those moments.
Savouring freshly-made apple danish the size of a frisbee and eating half of it rather than two bites is a moment.
Listening to my friend, Chelsea, play guitar and sing Joni Mitchell's Green on screen on St Patrick's Day is a moment.
So is listening to Phoebe, who has started posting daily to a page she calls Conscious Connections for the Anxious Mind as she explains how micro-movements can help form new pathways in the brain. I've no idea if I'll increase my neuroplasticity by gently rocking my pelvis, but Phoebe's voice is soothing.
Reading about emergency physician Jeff, who says he expects to contract coronavirus but will keep working until he gets sick is a moment.
Putting my feet up and taking a break from unpacking is a moment.
Hugging my children - yeah, a moment.
Even if the powers that be cancel everything, we can still seek these sweet, small moments.
Meanwhile, my tribe has a computer keyboard to find. And when we do - what a moment that will be.