10th April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 10
- 3 min read
Entry No. 183: “The Case of Billie Jean’s Baby”
Filed under: Custody, Confusion & Turkey Baster Betrayals
Dearest Diary,
There are depositions one approaches with dignity and decorum. And there are others—like this one—where one merely grips their pearls, presses “record,” and prepares to transcribe chaos.
We gathered in a conference room.
The air was fragranced with anxiety and the emotional notes of a nervous breakdown steeped on low heat.
The dispute?
Custody of a child… whom neither parent claimed to have fathered. You heard me. This wasn’t so much a divorce proceeding as it was an Olympic relay of denial.
The parties? A same-sex couple, now divorcing, who had—during their brief but impassioned union—opted to grow their family with the assistance of their very generous, overly involved neighbor.
Let us call her Madame Baseline, for reasons that shall soon become appallingly clear.
Now, at the time of conception, they had no lawyers. No contracts. No clinics. Just hope, hubris, and a turkey baster. I caution you, reader, that after this, you may never look at Thanksgiving the same again.
Yes, Diary. A turkey baster. From their own kitchen. From Bed Bath & Beyond, I presume. A legacy utensil, now emotionally cursed.
The "insemination" occurred in their home—with one dad allegedly holding the mood lighting, and the other queuing up Luther Vandross. The romance was organic. The legal foresight? Nonexistent.
Both men appeared at the hospital. Both signed the birth certificate. There were Instagram posts, matching robes, and a group baby shower photo where everyone’s edges were laid by destiny. And for two years, all was bliss.
Until the breakup.
And suddenly—like the third act of a Lifetime movie directed by Shonda Rhimes—both men claimed the child was not theirs.
In fact, both men stated, on the record, that they were misled... by each other.
They pointed fingers with the theatricality of a Shakespearean duel.
“He tricked me!”“I was deceived by her ovulation window!”“That child has his ears!”“That’s your turkey baster, darling—check the brand!”
It was like watching Maury on mute in an anthropology lecture. Spirited. Chaotic. Deeply unscientific.
The legal question, of course, was whether either man could now disavow parentage—despite the birth certificate, despite the child being born during the marriage, and despite holding the baby like Simba on Pride Rock every Father’s Day since birth.
My client? One of the dads. He asked me, straight-faced:
“Can we subpoena her fridge records?”
Sir, this is not the FDA. And I shan’t be deposing an appliance.
Opposing counsel was no better—he slid across the table a printout of a BuzzFeed quiz titled “Which Celebrity Baby Are You?” and attempted to use it to suggest that the child “might be better suited in a heterosexual household.”
The court reporter blinked in Morse code. I responded with a motion to strike and a raised brow honed through years of private school and petty rebukes.
Eventually, we learned the mother—the unflappable Madame Baseline—had moved to Costa Rica and now sells organic sea moss smoothies. She refused to participate. In fact, she sent the court a handwritten letter that simply read:
“Y’all are grown. Figure it out.”
Indeed.
After days of circular logic and tearful monologues, the judge ordered genetic testing—not to determine parentage, but to clarify if the child’s true fathers were actually emotionally equipped to co-parent a ficus, let alone a small human.
We’re still awaiting results.
But let it be known, Diary: You can share a turkey baster.
You can share a child.
But if you don’t share accountability?
You’re just two grown men in a legal blender with no lid.
The child is not a metaphor. Nor a prop in your custody theatre. And no matter what Billie Jean told you, the kid is somebody’s son. Do better.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Petty. Permanently DNA-Aware.
Disclaimer:This diary entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual people, turkey basters, or televised paternity disputes is entirely coincidental—but frankly, not outside the realm of legal possibility. The Michael Jackson reference however, is 100% real.
Tag someone who thinks parenthood begins with a turkey baster and ends with courtroom theatrics.
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