The Pasteur, the Mother & the Holy Father

The Power of Language (and Pasta)

How being called “Father” by my daughter turned into a lesson on how family court shapes our children. Based on a true set of events :)

It started with pasta. My daughter was two, sweet, serious, and suddenly, oddly formal.

One afternoon, she looked up at me and asked:

“Father, may I have pasta for tea?”

Not Dad. Not Daddy. But Father the title the family court had granted me. Like someone who’d spent her early years absorbing the formal phrases of proceedings. A mini Saul Goodman. A toddler Elle Woods. Then came the school gates:

“Father, can we go to the park?”

It sounded so out of place. So strangely… correct. A couple of parents laughed. One said sarcastically, “Such good manners.”

I responded the only way I knew how:

“Of course, my daughter.”

And just like that, I committed the cardinal sin.

I said "my" daughter. Not "our" daughter. The court-approved language is more neutral. More palatable. Less possessive. Less... mine.

In the “real world,” far from court documents and solicitor-speak, mums and dads say “my” all the time—without judgment. At school drop-off. At birthday parties. In soft play & WhatsApp groups.

“My kids would love that.”

“I’ll definitely bring my two along.”

Not to erase the other parent. Not to claim ownership. But to express a simple, joyful truth: these are my people. It’s shorthand for pride, for connection, for care.

But in the legal system, language shifts. It flattens. Neutralises. Un-claims, just enough to keep the temperature down. Fair enough. But what happens when that language comes home with you?

& then around age three, she started calling me “Mum.”

She’d wait until I was distracted, then shout it across the room:

“Mum!”

Every time, a dirty, mischievous laugh—the kind only small children manage when they're pranking dad.

What she had discovered—unknowingly—was the power of language.

Was it funny? Absolutely. But it was also revealing.

A glimpse into how quickly children absorb what we don’t say out loud:

The tone. The labels. The formalities. The quiet power structures baked into the words we use.

Sometimes, it takes a two-year-old to hold up a mirror.

To show us the quiet absurdities we’ve stopped noticing.

To remind us to take ourselves a little less seriously.

To loosen our grip on the script.

Be mindful.

The words we use, especially those shaped by the court can influence how we’re seen, how we see ourselves, and how our children learn to see us too.

And when your toddler calls you “Mum” as a joke, or “Father” like you’re in a 19th-century courtroom drama?

There’s only one thing to say:

“Case closed, your Honour. The verdict is in "our" daughter is wicked-smart. No further questions.”