Mother. Worker. Juror.

A couple weeks ago I got a jury summons in the mail.  Halleluah!, I thought.  I’d been waiting  years for this.  This being my tired mom fantasy of sitting all day in a room full of strangers where there is no expectation for me to talk or be social or explain or nurture or cultivate or encourage or teach or any of those other things moms do on a regular basis. 

In my juror fantasy, I am tucked away, high in a civic building, where it is just me and my iPad with my current book about the history of Mormonism and my Vanity Fair magazines that never get read in a timely manner. I am anonymous.  No one needs me to wipe their nose or fix their lunch or bathe them or read inane dinosaur factoids.  No one knows I grieve my daughter.  I am simply Juror X on Panel Y.  In the fantasy, my panel does not get called and while I am a bit disappointed about that, I revel in the space and lack of connectiveness.  I stroll through the blooming park on the way back to my car, cruising home along the lakefront, after all potential jurors were dismissed early for lack of cases. 

Yeah, I did say fantasy.  As it turns out, I am a model juror, which means I am valued for my impartiality and ability to discern relevant details from attorneys pitching their side of the story.  My panel got called straight away and sure enough, today I won the jury lottery.  Can’t tell you what jury lottery, as I get to return tomorrow.  It appears my mom fantasy of anonymity and disconnectiveness will have to wait. 

What’s your mom fantasy?  Keep it clean, folks.