How I Survived Jury Duty with My 2-Year-Old

In a moment we'll come to the part when we were in the bathroom, my 2-year-old daughter and I, and I'm trying to will the poop out of her. First, we need to back up to how she and I ended up serving jury duty together – before we stopped proceedings with a potty break.

Tuesday morning I was one of 40 local residents called to the Johnson County Courthouse for jury duty. Twice before I had been granted deferrals – first because I requested one and the second time because I absent-mindedly wrote the date wrong on my calendar. So when I showed up to check-in Tuesday with a 2-year-old in my arms, the staff shot me a death-look.

"You can't bring a child here," she said.

"I told you I was the primary caregiver," I said back.

"You had time to make arrangements," she said.

"I made arrangements for my older 2," I said. "Our daycare for this one didn't tell us until 11 days ago they'd be closed for spring break."

"You had time."

"We're not going to find a sitter on short notice for however many days jury duty takes when it's spring break in a college town. I'm the primary caregiver. I told you something like this might happen."

She talked to the judge to see whether I should stay. I thought for sure they'd begrudgingly defer me again, or hold me in contempt for being a pain in their butt. To my shock, they told me to stay and proceed as planned. Two of my fellow prospective jurors privately expressed their outrage to me that the court had required me to stay.

But I had come prepared: iPad, cereal, banana, bagel, juice box, two Curious George anthologies, Fox in Socks, and a soft squishy ball she could roll around the room. To my horror, the iPad and all food and drink were banned from courtrooms, which meant for the next 4-8 hours, I'd have a 2-year-old, three books, a ball, no food, and a mandate for silence.

Hell.

Within moments I broke the no-food rule and handed her the bag of cereal and raisins. No one said anything. I began to realize some of the other prospectives had my back. Then, a gift. Prospective-juror instructions were delivered on a flat screen. That bought me 5 more calm minutes of my daughter on my lap.

But soon, "I want Lorax!"

I pulled out Curious George. We read a couple of stories. Soon it was time to move to another room where the judge could address us. I braced for a meltdown.

Here's the thing about our youngest. She is, by far, the most stubborn of our three children. She's our William Wallace. The more one tells her to be quiet, the louder she defiantly becomes. Within seconds she was talking, asking for me to release her so she could walk around, or sit in this chair or that bench. I knew that she was incapable of not talking, so I made my only play.

"We have to whisper," I said. "The teacher is talking."

"Teacher?"

"Yes, that nice lady is the teacher. And she's talking."

"She's the teacher?"

"Yes."

"She's the teacher?"

"Yes. Let's whisper so we can hear her."

(Whispering) "OK."

Success!

Until …

"Daddy, I have to go potty."

Now, she's doing pretty well with the potty training, but you can't tell a 2-year-old to cross her legs and hold it. You just can't. Because we were in the back of the room, right by the door, I thought we could slip out while the judge was explaining what "reasonable doubt" means. I was wrong.

"Excuse me, sir," the judge said sternly, her voiced raised to reach me in the back. "You can't just walk out."

"I'm sorry," I said. "She has to go potty. She, uh, has to go to the bathroom." I'll be honest. I was mad the county wouldn't exempt me from serving – I'm a primary caregiver and a contributor to three local media organizations, which means my presence is unreliable and it's nearly impossible for me to not be influenced by what journalists report (jurors are instructed to ignore media). In fact, I help media figure out how to frame local news. Nevertheless, when I realized I was stopping an entire court proceeding to take my kid potty, I was mortified. I can't imagine what shade of red took over my face.

"If you leave, I have to stop for everyone, and we will all have to wait until you get back," the judge said.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I darted out of the room with the kid in my arms.

A moment later we were in the bathroom.

"OK, go potty," I said.

"Are you happy?" she asked, no doubt reading my stress.

"Just go potty. Have you gone yet? Can you go?"

"No."

"Are you done?"

"No."

"Honey, you need to go potty."

"Are you happy?"

"C'mon, just go to the bathroom!"

"No."

"Honey, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

She made the poop face, finally. A minute or two later, hands washed and clothes reassembled, we were done. We returned to the selection room, where the judge again told me I couldn't just leave, and if it happened again I was to raise my hand and request permission. It was a fair demand. I explained that by slipping out I was trying to not be a distraction. So much for that, I guess.

The girl started to get feisty. I could tell she was getting hungry. She was bored with Curious George. I gave her the bagel, ready for the judge to admonish me for breaking another rule, but she didn't. My kid sat quietly on my lap, eating, watching the Voir dire. Thankfully, I wasn't one of the 21 first picked for that process.

We took a break, now at the 3-hour mark, my expectations far exceeded. She's a great kid, but she's also 2, and how we got this far was a miracle. A woman – a musician and conductor – paid me the nicest compliment.

"You're doing a wonderful job," she said. "I was a young mother too, once."

Waiting to return to the selection room, I suddenly remembered the words of my mother-in-law: "tire the kids out." We went into the empty courtroom, where I convinced the girl to fold down every last one of the theater-style seats in the gallery, and then fold them back up again.

That was enough to mentally reset her. The prospectives were recalled. She was ready for Curious George, again, which I could whisper-read to her in the back without distracting the proceedings. A few of the original 21 were dismissed and a few of us who were not part of the Voir dire were called to replace them. Again, I wasn't. Somehow.

Another break. Another return to the room. This time, we were told the jury had been selected. The judge … very … slowly … thanked … us for our time and talked about how important our jobs were. No doubt. If it hadn't been for the kid on my hip, I would have been disappointed to not get seleted. As it was, I was thrilled. When the judge dismissed us, the look of relief on my face must have been obvious, because two others who were dismissed passed by and said, "You made it!"

Our 2-year-old did the impossible. She sat relatively still and relatively quiet and incident-free for four hours! When the 12 jurors and alternate were sworn in, she even climbed up on a bench, stood tall, and raised her right hand with them.

On Tuesday, she was one of us.

Find Dave Schwartz on Twitter @daveschwartz.