February is usually a ridiculous month for us. All of Ella's check up appointments fall during the month and there's always illness. Our house has seen strep throat, three sinus infections, and two ear infections in the last four weeks, and that includes me. I might have had a bit a bronchitis, too ("Ain't nobody got time for that!"), but whatever. The drugs were the same either way.
After all those doctor's appointments were over and antibiotics were underway, I had jury duty for the first time. And, I was actually picked to serve on a jury - which I'm still doing. They say the average case in this county lasts three days. Tomorrow will be day three. Dave is loving it because he wants to know what goes on in the jury room. I told him I'd take good notes. It has definitely been interesting.
Between doctors appointments and jury service, I've been doing a lot of watching and listening and waiting. I have some musings.
What does it say about me as a person that I felt profound relief when I overheard the doctor at the after hours clinic say that the little girl who was in the waiting room with us because she had been throwing up for days likely had appendicitis? Nothing good, especially given that my child was the contagious one with strep throat, but the longer I parent these children, the more creeped out I am by doctor's offices. I nearly lost my cool with Luke that same night because he kept getting on the floor in the exam room. Ick. I know what stomach viruses do in this house, and I'd take strep throat over that any day of the week.
On more than one occasion in the last three weeks, I've felt like cattle being shuttled around here and there, but most especially during the jury selection process. Come in, go out, take a break, hurry back, and wait. And American Family Care? Not much better than jury selection. I wouldn't have been there if my actual doctor's office worked a full week, but they don't and I needed to get myself checked before the weekend, so there I was questioning if that doctor even saw anything with that light she shined in the approximate vicinity of my mouth hole. Then the nurse came in with two shots and, I kid you not, I had to ask her, "Do we know what's wrong with me yet?" Cattle.
Having had shots in my love handles now, I can honestly say I'd rather just drop my pants and take it in the butt cheek. Why the love handles?
Ella doesn't wait well. As we were waiting for the pediatrician to check out Luke last Friday afternoon, she informed me that we had been waiting for 17 minutes and that "this [was] the worst thing that ever happened to [her] life." It was longer than 17 minutes, but I'm glad that's the worst thing to ever happen to her.
I'm convinced that all bailiffs are old. No offense to bailiffs, but every one I've ever met is old enough to be my grandfather. Our bailiff/concierge for the week spent some time telling us about how many pacemakers he's had, and about some of the more gruesome criminal trials he's sat through. I was encouraged to know that the cases disturbed him because I was quite disturbed while listening to his recounting.
Apparently wearing a badge that says "Juror" around the court house gives you status. I didn't have to put my purse in the bin to run through the x-ray machine after lunch today because of my badge. That makes me uncomfortable. I want to know that everyone in the courthouse had their bags and persons checked. I've read a lot of John Grisham; I know how suspect jurors can be.
Jury service isn't nearly as glamorous as Grisham makes it seem.
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