It’s Day 17 without a microwave, and the natives are growing restless. I awoke this morning to a thought that is becoming all too familiar: What if we don’t survive this day? We’ve been lucky to make it this far in such uncharted territory.

Residents of this island are an impatient toddler, a father who likes his nachos, and a pregnant lady who has to eat every two hours. Maintenance workers from a neighboring land have visited several times, once to confirm the microwave was broken, another time to “fix” it (functional as long as we didn’t open the door or need it to cook) and plenty more times to assure us that a replacement was on its way. Apparently by boat. The one made of clouds that frequents Neverland, London, and hopefully, one day, our apartment.

The darkest day was the day they came to inform us that our microwave had indeed arrived, but was mistakenly donated to the future inhabitants of 37A. They haven’t moved in yet, but I hope they enjoy our microwave when they do.

Dad is on a light rotation, giving him ample time to take the microwave apart, confirm that his Mr. Fix It powers are no match for the mysteries of the cursed instrument, and put it back together. But having him around has increased our chances for survival in other ways. For example, while I have rededicated my time to reheating rice in a pot, baking microwaveable bacon in the oven, and simmering instant oatmeal on the stove, he has spent his energy redirecting the toddler’s attention from his starving stomach to disaster preparedness. After all, they say once the microwaves go, total destruction of livable infrastructure is not far behind.

They say our new microwave is coming today or tomorrow. I’m hopeful today is the day. It’s National Napping Day. What could be a better way to celebrate than with a nice cup of microwaved hot cocoa and a long nap that we can now afford because we can cook lunch in a matter of minutes again?

Wish us luck. Day 17 is fairing well, but I have a feeling Day 18 will not be so kind.