Daddyward futuretake!

Babies are liars. If you've ever tried to negotiate with a newborn, you know what I'm talking about. They look all sweet and innocent, and they convince you that they'd never do you wrong. They enter a gentleman's agreement with you and then blatantly ignore everything they agreed to.

They're awake at two, and four, and six, and you just want to sleep but you can't. And your wife has bigger balls than you do, so you agree to stay home with your bundle of joy that is more like a gremlin than a human while she goes Christmas shopping. No bright lights, don't get him wet, and don't feed him after midnight. Ha!

The little man is perfect for approximately five hours throughout the entire day, split into tiny fragments of sanity. The rest of the time, he's crying because he's hungry, because he needs to burp, because I don't have tits, because he shit himself and somehow that's my fault.

Babies are filthy liars.

"Okay, Liam, it's okay. We've got this, don't we, buddy?" I try showing him the Christmas decorations on the fireplace mantel. He gives me this adorable gurgle and then promptly vomits like we're on the set of The Exorcist.

"Damn—darn it!" I look around frantically for something to clean him up with. In desperation, I grab the nearest baby blanket and wipe his face while he squalls and then I try in vain to clean off my shirt. It used to be my favorite Eagles tee.

I bring him into the nursery to pull out a clean onesie and change him quickly. Of course, it isn't quick, because it's like I'm squeezing a full size octopus into a flour sack full of monkeys, but I finally manage. He's dry, he's clean, he's fed. That's my mantra these days.

I take him back to the living room and put him in his swing, thinking I desperately need a shower, but it doesn't seem to matter what speed I use; his cries only get louder and louder.

"Shhh! We don't want the neighbors to call CPS, now do we?" I try to cajole Liam into behaving, as though he has the ability to reason with me.

Sighing, I pull him back out of the swing and start walking around the room. I grab the remote off the side table as I pass by, turning on a random sports channel. As I circle the room patting my son on his back, I try to follow along with the soccer game playing, but I just can't seem to focus on what's going on. Finally, he stops crying, and I plop down on the couch, leaving him on my chest as I stretch back a little. Sitting feels so good right now.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I'm conscious of is the loudest farting sound I've ever heard. For such a little dude, he sure can rival Emmett in bodily functions. The smell hits me next, and I shift him around a little to look at his cherub's face. He looks utterly content, which can't be good for me.

Never turn your back on your enemy. Or your baby, 'cause you just know they're up to something.

I feel it next, the wetness between me and my son. "Fuck! I mean, fudge! Oh, fuck it, it's not like you understand me, or you'd be old enough not to shit on your father!"

I get up again, and the feared diaper leak is currently soaked through my shirt and all up the front of my baby. How the hell does that even happen? It completely defies the laws of physics. Into the bathroom we go, where I dig out his bath seat one-handed, then turn on the faucet in the tub. Now he's quiet; figures. When I'm satisfied I won't be making boiled baby, I lower the seat and myself, kneeling by the tub and placing Liam into the seat fully clothed. Only once he's strapped in do I worry about trying to remove his outfit.

"This shit must be made by NASA," I grumble as I struggle to pull everything down to keep the poop off the cutest face I've ever seen.

After all, he looks just like me.

Liam gets a very thorough bath, and the tub gets drained and rinsed of mustardy poop. I wrap him in a towel and head back to the nursery to dry him, powder him, and lube him up. I dress him in a funny booby onesie for my own amusement before I remember he's the reason I don't get any boobies right now. Oh, well. I wrap him like a burrito in a blanket to keep him away from the dried poop on my shirt.

I take him back to the living room and start swaying back and forth with him the way Bella does. I don't know any lullabies off the top of my head, so I start singing Enter Sandman. Same thing. His eyes are drooping, and his head is heavy as I continue my song.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word. And never mind that noise you heard. It's just the beasts under your bed. In your closet, in your head!" I'm really belting it out when the lyrics catch my attention. "Fuck, that's really not appropriate for a baby, is it?" He doesn't answer me, of course. Liam Cullen doesn't converse with the staff.

I lower myself slowly to the couch, lying flat and centering his little body on my chest. I tuck a pillow under my outer arm and go back to watching soccer.

"Edward?" I hear a whisper in a sultry voice. I swat at the tickle on my cheek.

"Is it time for my happy-ending massage, Gustav?" I mumble.

"What?"

I open my eyes and look up at Bella. "What?"

She rolls her eyes and leans over me and the baby. "You must have fallen asleep. How did it go?"

"Well, I probably stink like a ditch digger that's been shit on, but he's fresh as a daisy."

I see it, the way she wants to laugh at me but doesn't. "Go ahead, laugh. I'm tired enough that I might cry otherwise."

And she does laugh; boy, does she take pleasure in my misery. She bursts into hysterical laughter. "Oh, God, Edward, you have to see yourself in the mirror."

Bella gently and carefully picks Liam up off my chest, trying desperately not to wake him and incur his wrath, tiny Khan that he is. I get up, groaning like I'm twice my age, and climb the stairs to go into the master bath. When I flip the light on, I scream like a little girl and flip it back off.

"Never mind! I'll just shower in the dark."

Never negotiate with terrorists.

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