Jury Duty, Too Much Breastmilk, and an Unexpected Day Off

It wasn’t convenient, but it had some perks.

The jury duty summons arrived a couple of weeks ago.

When I opened it up I recalled the survey I’d received a few months before. I had begrudgingly declared that yes, I was eligible for jury duty, hoping that it didn’t mean I would actually be summoned anytime soon.

But then I was.

When that little piece of paper arrived in the mail, anxiety lodged itself in my solar plexus and sent a whole host of questions up to my brain: How can I carry this responsibility when my arms are already about to fall off? Am I enough of an adult to do this? Will I be made to feel stupid and inferior (which tends to be my M.O. in general)? Will my oldest son be okay without me?

Thankfully, I didn’t have to report to the courthouse on Monday.

I had a meeting for our homeschool co-op Monday night and didn’t get around to checking the New York Jurors website until 10:30 PM. I saw the numbers and panicked. My number was in the range of jurors that needed to report to the courthouse NO LATER THAN 8:15 AM ON TUESDAY JUNE 14.

It was late. I’ve been struggling with intense fatigue lately, and I was exhausted. Tears threatened to spill out of my eyes as I remembered that I hadn’t nursed my one-year-old since 3 PM because I was at the meeting all evening.

I would have to leave in the morning before he was awake. I contemplated waking him up in the night to nurse him but couldn’t get myself to miss out on the sleep I desperately needed.

I also hadn’t warned my oldest child — the one in the throes of mental illness, the one with an undiagnosed disability that we still don’t have proper support for, the one who hates surprises, especially surprises that involve mom leaving the house — that I might be gone for an undesignated length of time on one or more days this week. This could be bad.

My kind husband talked me through where to park and if it was okay to wear jeans and what the chances were that I’d actually have to stay all day. He told me the kids were going to be okay and wiped away the rogue tears I was desperately trying to hold back. I went to bed and slept for what felt like five minutes before the alarm went off at 6:30 AM.

I stumbled down the stairs toward the tea kettle to get some water boiling for the pour-over coffee my husband offered to make for me this morning (because I was too tired the night before to set up my coffee in my room like I usually do).

On the way to the kitchen, I passed a dead mouse in a trap, but my bleary eyes didn’t even see it.

The poor creature had put up a fight before meeting his end, somehow scooting the trap from under the radiator to the middle of the front hall. (Go ahead, picture an alternate version of this story that involves me tripping over the dead mouse. Let me know when you’re done.)

Determined to gird myself with nutrients for the day ahead, I scrambled up some eggs with spinach, scallions, and cheddar. (Though various health professionals have urged me not to eat dairy, I ask you, what is a scrambled egg without a bit of cheese?)

I scarfed my breakfast and ran upstairs to throw on the clothes I had picked out the night before. As a stay-at-home mom, I don’t have much in the way of business casual attire. I think I’m finally learning how to dress my thirty-six-year-old self (with a little life-changing help — that’s an affiliate link) but my outfits are more fitting for the playground or the grocery store — not the courtroom.

So I donned the same outfit I had worn on Easter when my husband admiringly exclaimed, “Hello power suit!” Navy blue dress pants and cropped cardigan bought at a consignment store a decade ago and a lacy but modest white blouse I once wore under a different power suit: my “going away outfit” at our wedding, in the tradition of Annie Banks in the 1991 Father of the Bride. (I scoured the internet for a picture to no avail. Just go watch the movie and you’ll see what I mean.)

I finished off my costume with some simple earrings and a pair of black flats that give me blisters if I have to walk too far in them. (Later that day I put them in a box labeled “donate.” I’m done with those suckers.) I pulled my unwashed hair into a quick chignon and attempted to do my five-minute make-up in half the time.

Back in the kitchen, I threw whatever snacks I could into my very unprofessional all-purpose bag (a handmade piece from 10,000 Villages with a bohemian vibe): nut bars, meat sticks, and some cheese that I knew would be lukewarm by the time I got to it, a bar of 85% dark chocolate I hoped wouldn’t melt all over my bag, and a banana that I would leave in the car because we all know that carrying a banana in your bag is a very bad idea. I grabbed my thirty-two-ounce water bottle that I bought to bring to the hospital for my fourth baby’s birth and a travel mug of the coffee I hadn’t had time to drink yet.

I ran back upstairs to grab my almost-forgotten jury summons, just in time to greet my groggy five-year-old wearing only a pair of cotton pajama pants sagging on his slim frame, emphasizing his mop of curls that instantly win over everyone he meets. “Are you going somewhere?” he inquired. “Yeah, I have to go, buddy, but I love you and I hope to be back soon.” I didn’t have time to even hug him. I ran out the door and punched the address into my phone.

As I drove, the anxious thoughts from the day I received the summons came back, with one more added to the collection:

What am I going to do about the fact that I haven’t nursed since three PM yesterday and the one breast my one-year-old prefers is already uncomfortably full?

In an effort to calm those racing thoughts, I turned on my “Be Not Afraid” playlist that has been my steady companion through my fourth and most difficult pregnancy, my fourth and most difficult birth, and the most difficult year of my life. It worked, a little.

A parking garage, a security checkpoint, a winding hallway, an enthusiastic and informative speech by the energetic Commissioner of Jurors, and two outdated video presentations later, I sat in a room with a couple of hundred other people being informed that we could take a break until 10:30 when they would divide us into three groups and give us our assignments. I paused, aware of the fullness in my chest, and thought, now is my chance.

I gathered my strength and approached one of the gray-haired men at the desk behind the plexiglass in the middle of the long room.

“I’m a breastfeeding mom…” I began, not sure what I was even asking for. I hadn’t had time to dig my pump out of the back of the closet where it has sat for months. I’ve never been very successful at hand expression, and I didn’t even have anything to put the milk into. But I needed to find a way to empty this breast.

The man jumped in, “Do you need a lactation room? Right this way. There might be someone in there still but there are two rooms, a small fridge, and a private bathroom.”

I nodded, pretending I knew what I was doing, and followed him, still not sure how I was going to get out of this mess.

Once I was alone, I grabbed some paper towels from the bathroom, locked myself into one of the generously-sized lactation cubicles, and looked around. A few minutes before, I had texted my lactation consultant friend for advice and she had responded with a video demonstrating how to hand express (which I had discreetly watched, muted, in between the video presentations).

You’ve got this, Joanna.

I threw the paper towels into the bottom of the empty garbage can which I situated in front of my chair. I took a breath and began imitating the movement I had seen in the video, attempting to squirt milk into the garbage can.

It was working! But it was also squirting everywhere. Breasts are funny like that. I needed a plan B if I didn’t want to be covered in milk splatters and make a mess of the lactation room.

I headed to the bathroom (which didn’t have a lock, oddly), told myself that no one else would be coming in (the only other breastfeeding mom, it seemed, had just finished pumping a few minutes before), and began expressing into the sink.

Normally I’d be sad to see that milk going down the drain, but this time it was the most delightful sight imaginable! As the milk flowed, the physical pressure began to lessen, and I was flooded with relief. It took this desperate situation for me to be determined enough to learn this new skill. But I did it!

The rest of the day was uneventful but surprisingly nice. Shortly after our division into three groups, Mr. Commissioner of Jurors (AKA the Evangelist of the New York Court System) informed us that one of the defendants had waived his right to a trial by jury, and group three — my group — may not be needed.

We were dismissed to a three-hour lunch break, at which point we would report back to see if some or all of us were needed.

At this news, a collection of complaints could be heard around the room. “It sucks, that’s what!” one woman exclaimed. “Are you kidding me?!” complained a large man with a two-liter bottle of Coke next to him. A frustrated sigh escaped from the woman behind me who told me earlier she was moving this week and really didn’t have time for this.

No, jury duty isn’t ever going to be convenient.

But with my full breast situation dealt with and texts from my husband informing me that my older son was doing mostly okay without me, I didn’t mind the thought of taking myself out to lunch and spending the afternoon reading a novel.

And that’s just what I did.

The thirty-two lucky people in group three ended up waiting around until four PM, at which point we were informed that we were free to go home. “Thank you for your service,” said the evangelist of the New York court system, meaning it.

“You’re welcome,” I said on the way out. I was ready to go home and kiss my husband, nurse my baby that is barely still a baby, hug my five-year-old, watch my ten-year-old run through the sprinkler, and hear about my twelve-year-old’s latest Minecraft adventure.

I didn’t serve on a jury. I wasn’t even considered for one. But I got a day mostly off of parenting, the opportunity to learn a new skill, a chance to see a part of my city that I don’t normally see, a roasted vegetable panini at a cute little cafe, and several hours to read Revival Season (which I highly recommend!). At some point, I’ll receive a check for forty dollars to thank me for fulfilling my civic duty.

Perhaps I’ll buy myself a new pair of black flats.