Day eight.
Been one whole week since Liam came to be. This parenting thing, I'm afraid, is a full-time assignment; I am either catering after the Swan's every need (which I truly don't mind since she not only saved my life but made me a father too) or doing dad-duty. Henry's a big hand (good thing since I only got one to begin with); what a good lad he's turning out to be, that one! He fuzzes over Liam (don't we all) and has actually stated that he will become the next great hero of the town.
If he's anything like his mum, he will be!
Last evening David and Snow brought wee Neal to meet his baby nephew. That in itself is slightly odd; Neal is but a babe himself, barely reaching two in a few months, and lo, he is an uncle! (Does that technically mean that even if they are closer to cousinship, the Prince might just have authority over my boy for sheer ownership of title and family hierarchy? Sod it. They're both children.) He seemed enthralled, the little prince, looking at a much smaller babe, and then tried to poke his eye. Harmless enough; I suppose all sucklings under the age of proper reason feel the need to clutch and touch and poke and prod and my very young brother-in-law is clearly no exception, even if he is a bona-fide prince. Snow curved that particular desire and kindly instructed her young son to caress and kiss rather than fondle or poke, and gentle "Charming" soul that he is, Neal proceeded to stroke the little one's hand gently. Emma looked pleased. Henry took an amazing... what are they called, photograph, is it? ("No magic" my arse, how else does one explain the stilling of time, freezing the likeness of people in an exact moment on some puny screen?) Well, he took one of those of the very instant when Emma´s wee brother actually gave his young nephew a kiss on the head. Ha! Little bugger looks so much like his bloody father, the poor helpless sod!
If someone had told me three years ago that this would be my life today, I'd have laughed in his face and told him to bugger off.
It's been a bloody great feeling, fathering that little one... Emma didn't know I could sing (I trait I carry oh so well, actually) and has actually given me the task of singing Liam to sleep a couple of times. Bloody marvelous, especially since her singing would very likely give the boy nightmares. There may be a million things Swan can do, but singing is definitely not one of them. I also helped with the bathing... Now here I can't really be left alone with the task; A small, soaped, slippery babe and a one handed father are really not a fine combination, so Henry and Emma helped. They left the soaping and shampooing to me while Emma held him steady in the tub. Henry did the rinsing. Bloody great! And from the looks of it, the wee lad loves water.
Yet another water- fond Jones! I... couldn´t ... be ... prouder.
The lad is a precious one; he allows his parents to sleep through the night, a fete my dear mother-in-law did not enjoy with Prince Neal. But Liam will wake invariably around oh-six hundred, screaming for his mother. Since (like most sailors) I am up before the dawn (unless I'm suffering from a hangover which I can't really do until my son is old enough to vote now, apparently), it is my task to collect the bairn, take him to Emma and just watch in awe. There is nothing more inspiring than watching that particular moment... It really is like seeing a mother and her son spiritually bonding... even if poor Emma is only partially awake then and will very likely sleep while the wee one enjoys breakfast. Once that is done, Swan flops back in bed and resumes her snoring. Yes, she snores... like a troll, at times. She will deny it. But she snores. And I collect Liam, kiss his little face (the boy tickles because of my beard and always makes an adorable wince that has me smiling through the day) and place him back in his bassonette, where he resumes his slumber till, say, mid day.
But the supplanting of dirty nappies... Flaming hell.
How could one small, adorable little boy make such an unbelievably foul, frightful produce? Swan takes care of that. I play the "Only got one hand, love" card on that one. I love my son beyond reason, but I do have my limits. In fact, I'll just evade that topic hereon, before I do become sick.
His eyes are blue, by the way. We finally saw them well. Swan was right, he looks like me. Now we have two devilishly handsome chaps in the family! Wait, make that three with Henry, to honor his late father, whom I also loved almost as one of my own (here's to you mate, every time!). Not to mention the (if I do say so myself) incomparable fairness and inner fire that is Emma Swan. Even if she is (legally) Jones now, she still is and always will be Emma Swan. There is not a blasted thing in this universe that could tie her to me or anyone; she's a relentless, fierce fire that drew this wicked old fly to her like a beacon and it's precisely that untamable soul of hers that drives me crazy beyond all reason and accountability. For her, I'll not just sail across oceans, but parallel realms; I'd kill and quite gladly die... For her I gave up what had been, till I met her, my only home, my commodity and my life: The Jolly Roger. Alas, I have nothing to pass down to my sons, except my heart, a changed heart. I hope they will forgive their pirate father for his lack of vision, but alas, for now it is all I can give.
Must leave; lullaby time. Better get things done before Emma tries to sing herself and gives the innocuous infant a reason to wail again. We will see when I get another window of opportunity to continue jotting down this log. Time runs scarcer and scarcer these days...
Footnote: Why do I keep thinking about what Blackbeard would say if he heard me talking to my little son? My funny, high-pitched tone of voice, my singing, my cleaning up after the child regurgitates all over me? The bastard's bloody dead!