13 April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 13
- 2 min read
Entry No. 186: Your Honour, Your Toddler Is Showing
Filed under: Admonishments, Ankle-Biters & the Death of Dignity
Dearest Diary,
It began, as these things often do, with a stern warning and a flawless background.
Virtual court. Morning docket. Robes, rules, and the ritual recital of remote decorum.
No recording. No disruptions. No children in the courtroom.
The judge was composed. Commanding. Draped in the digital stillness of a mahogany dream.
And then—rather abruptly—the illusion unravelled.
One moment, she was reciting her admonishments with Churchillian gravitas.
The next, a tiny human floated into view like a Pixar character from the wrong franchise.
“MUMMY I’M HUNGRY.”
She was four. Possibly five. Wielding a sippy cup and the kind of urgent snack energy that could derail NATO.
She walked straight through Her Honour’s fake judicial background—revealing a plastic IKEA chair, a discarded Elsa wand, and the unmistakable chaos of a working mother holding court from the dining room.
We froze. The screen glitched.
The gallery inhaled in unison like a church about to erupt.
“Mummy,” she repeated—off-screen now, but spiritually omnipresent.
“I want the good crackers. Not the bunny ones.”
Opposing counsel dropped his jaw.
My client leaned toward the camera, whispering, “Does this mean we won?”
The court reporter—God bless her—covered her face and audibly snorted.
Her Honour’s mic was still on. She whispered, "Go ask Nana. Mummy’s in court."
To which the child replied:
“Nana said you’re not *really* in court. She said that’s just your laptop in the lasagna spot.”
Reader.
Reader, I nearly logged off, closed my laptop, and enrolled in culinary school.
Eventually, the screen steadied.
The child retreated. The judge, red-faced but regal, reassembled her dignity like a true matriarch of the bench.
“We will proceed,” she said, with the clipped grace of a woman who had once read Blackstone—but now moonlit as a snack sommelier.
And so we did. Technically.
Emotionally, however, we remained frozen in that moment—where robes and rules gave way to raisins and reality.
Because no matter how dignified the courtroom—or how digitally manufactured the mahogany—children will always find the crack in the veneer.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Pixelated. Betrayed by Bunny Crackers.
Disclaimer: This entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual judges, children, or courtroom snack interventions is entirely coincidental—but spiritually inevitable.
Tag someone whose toddler absolutely would interrupt a judicial ruling over crackers.
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