Jackson and The Dawn Father

Everything was comfortably familiar in my local cafe this morning. I was sipping a latte and skimming the newspapers, my face partially hidden under a Yankees cap. Happy in my own company, you might say. All around me a flurry of cooked breakfasts and coffee were being distributed to a swarm of 'yummy mummies' and their blessed little people. But where I'd normally consume the papers whilst keeping one ear open to conversation (as a freelance writer it would be remiss of me to do otherwise) the drone of screeching new borns and incoherent toddlers actually won out today – and in particular, one little man.

So, I was reading the The Age's Opinions page (okay, I was reading the sport section), when one little freckle-faced cherub started churning out a noise so piercing that one particular sentence I was ready became something of an unplanned mantra. The death metal backing of the tot, now harmonised by a couple of like-minded others, was similar to what you'd here late at night on JJJ.

Then, just as my threshold of pain was breached, the noise died down. I glanced over at my nemesis with a ringing in my ears. A waitress hovered at his table, chatting away as she handed large lattes to the mother and her friend. Naturally, after she'd finished gas-bagging, the waitress leant down and coo-cooed at the boy, pulling one of 'those faces', where, even as a fellow adult, you wished that old fantasy tale of faces freezing as the wind changed was real, before handing him one of those gimmicky baby coffees, the name of which escaped me at that moment.

“There you go, Jackson, drink your coffee,” the pale-faced mother said, caressing the boy's thin, sandy hair, before turning her attention back to her guffawing friend. I laid the paper down and waited for it to happen. Jackson surprised me by taking a sip before the liquid went all over the floor. “Maybe 18 months is too young for a babycino,” the mother said to her friend, who was already on her hands and knees dutifully wiping up with a serviette.

I went back to the newspaper, wanting to get through one article before leaving, only to be interrupted again by big-voiced J, now doing his 'nana over a banana. Aaarrgghh. Thank God that's not me, I thought, that warm rush of relief akin to that of a late-teen who's had a bad dream about missing a VCE exam, only to wake up and realise they now have a day-job instead.

And that's when it dawned on me, in an arm-hair-stiffening moment of realisation: hang on a minute, that is you. Or about to be... That 'sort of thing', that's youYouYOU...

I shakily took a sip of my coffee. For the first time since Tash, became pregnant eight months ago, the truth had hit me square between the eyes.

It's amazing how one little seemingly insignificant moment brings such realisation, when so many other supposed milestone moments didn't quite do the job. Denial (the oh-so-apt anagram of my Christian name) was my adversary from the outset. I thought back to that fateful March morning, when Tash returned from the chemist. I remember noting how simple the directions were on the pregnancy kit box: a criss-cross symbol meant Positive; a minus, Negative. It didn't matter which way I looked at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it was positive. Shock softened my joy; after all, it hadn't been planned, and we'd been cautious in a lax sort of way. I resolved to push it to the back of my brain as Tash assured me we wouldn't tell anyone until she'd safely navigated the first three months.

But there wasn't even any morning sickness. And she was still working. It was like nothing had changed. And while I thought telling people would take me to some other level, it didn't, despite the news drawing tears from my mother, a slap on the back from Dad and some earnest, grown-up advice from my single mates.

As time went on, there was Tash's ever-changing body shape and mindset: I'd seen her stomach expand outwards, droop downwards, her reasoning waver, but somehow a stubborn wall of denial always stood in the way, and I'd refrain looking too far ahead. Baby names? What's the rush, we have six months to go... sorry, make that five.

I'd been reliably told the 20-week 3D scan was when it would hit home the most. Must admit, the little alien-like human writhing around on the screen was indeed an eye-opener but that fatherly feeling remained elusive, and has remained that way even as the final necessities were carried out – the cot, a hand-me-down from a friend, assembled and painted; a baby seat fitted in the old bachelor wagon; the pram purchased; the hospital bags packed.

Even Tash's baby shower last weekend, where I was temporarily surrounded by a bunch of excitable females before escaping to the pub with my brother-in-law (for a couple of light beers, of course), still had the long-toothed bunnies jumping fences in my mind's eye rather than the delicate, wailing, nappy-soiling, vomiting little human who was just about to enter my sphere.

Leaving the cafe, I noticed them all around me. Little monkeys in prams. Toddlers being tugged back from the road by multi-tasking mothers. It's amazing how little you see of things that don't directly relate to you. I began asking myself questions: will I be a dad who avoids coffee shop outings? Will I be one who is suckered into the methods of others before me? Will my child be a babycino drinker? Will I put up a 'baby on board' sticker in my car after years of chastising others for doing the same?

So. I'm finally at one with the knowledge that in a few weeks – or maybe days – I'm about to become one of those people. One of those preoccupied, enamoured, stale milk-smelling souls with licorice-dark rings under the eyes. I may not be ready but, hey, who's ever ready for anything? So thank you, little Jackson, you might have ruined your mother's morning but you made mine.

My top five all-time worst Australian songs

1. Nothing Can Divide Us - Jason Donovan
Pure crud. His voice sounds like a cow in its dying throes. The 'lyrics' are stomach-churningly bad. The most rotten in a batch of bad Stock Aitken and Waterman eggs.
2. Especially For You - Kylie and Jason
Read above. I made the mistake of watching the filmclip for a laugh after eating my dinner. Bad mistake. No wonder JD turned to the snort in the '90s.
3. Angels Brought Me Here - Guy Sebastion
Number one with an Idol-driven bullet. Ah, the power of TV. What a nation of morons we are - how can any sane-thinking person think this is anything but diabolical?
4. Boys Will Be Boys - Choir Boys
Bogan central. Wash down your meat meal with a dozen VBs, wipe your mouth with your truckie singlet, high five and bang heads with the empty-headed mate nearest you.
5. Don't It make You Feel Good - Stefan Dennis
Should be number one but for a hot field, and because the 'emotive' filmclip is good for a laugh. Australian music really was at its nadir in the late 80s.

The Rating Game

What happens when a young man first cooks for his mother? As Daniel Lewis discovers, the roles might be reversed, but you can't erase your childhood.

This is a year of firsts for me. I moved out of the bachelor pad and in with my girlfriend. Quit my job to pursue a new career. And for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner for my mother. The latter was the most nerve-wracking of all.
When I rang Mum to invite her over a couple of weeks back, she was thrilled. But I wasn’t convinced she knew the full story.
“I'm cooking,” I added.
There was a pause. Memories of me bringing home appalling concoctions from home economics class were no doubt swirling around her mind. Surely he couldn't reproduce that quiche from sixteen years ago?
“Okay, I look forward to it.”
The line went dead. Even within that soothingly familiar voice, those last words had a sinister undercurrent. Mum was worried. So was I.
I asked my girlfriend for help.
“You cook for me all the time,” she said. “You'll be fine.”
It was easy for her to be blasé. She hadn’t been the smart-ass kid who spent much of his childhood rating his mother’s meals.
Monday night, roast. Potatoes not up to usual standard. Seven and a half.
Wednesday, chicken stir-fry. Too much zucchini. Eight.
Friday, lasagna. Excellent, although a little bland. Some chili wouldn't have gone astray. Eight and a half.
There were never any tens, as that would mean there was nothing to look forward to, or for Mum to work towards. And, conversely, no fails. We still wanted to eat the next night.
Worse still, none of this was lost on my little brother, 13 years my junior, who continued the tradition long after I'd left home. Countless hours sweating over hotplates; another decade of narrowly missing that elusive ten. And it was all my fault. It was time for me to be the grown up, to face the music.
The big day beckoned. Footscray market was mobbed, the range of produce imposing. I just wanted tomatoes. Stall after stall, amid endless rows of vegetables, were variations of the trusty staple: Roma, gourmet, wild, beefsteak, heritage. All shapes and sizes. The little Italian grocer laughed heartily when I asked if cherry tomatoes were suitable for cooking a sauce from scratch. She pointed in the direction of the vine-ripened variety, gave a quick rundown on how best to cook them before waddling away with a shake of her head.
So, to the vine-ripened stand. Must admit, there is something aesthetically pleasing about those with the leaves still intact. I'd remembered an episode where Jamie Oliver baked some with herbs and oil before tossing them through pasta. It looked easy, and he even had time to entertain his guests while cooking, not to mention having them in fits of laughter afterwards. I threw half a dozen in the basket, added a few Romas for good measure. Then I stocked up on cooked prawns, herbs, bread, cheese and fresh pasta.
Back in the kitchen, I lathered the baking tray with olive oil, placed the tomatoes down, chopped the garlic and chili. A shake of salt and pepper. The juice of a lemon.
The doorbell rang during my chopping frenzy. I nudged the baking tray to a position on the bench where the tomatoes glistened in the late afternoon sun. I delayed the final preparations as my girlfriend showed Mum, my sisters and brother-in-law around the house. With Mum settled on a bench stool with a drink, I applied the finishing touches.
She sipped away, observing. Finally, she said: “Well, don't you look the part?”
My girlfriend ushered everyone to the courtyard dining table, where my brother-in-law’s jokes and Mum's laughter could be heard amid the clink of wine glasses and rapid conversation. Just like in Oliver's Twist.
In the kitchen, the tomatoes were blistered and cooking down. I tossed through the prawns. Added basil for flavour and colour. Everything was transferred into the pasta and tossed evenly. I wiped my brow and finished the beer I'd started an hour before. The sober chef.
I marched out with fresh bread and a bowl of freshly grated parmesan. A final drizzle of oil and out went the main. I served Mum first and waited for her reaction. If she was surprised, she hid it well.
“Restaurant standard,” she said, a look of genuine pleasure on her face. “Eight out of ten.”