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.