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It was no use, you decided.
Then again…
You wriggled awkwardly and attempted to raise your heavy body, but quickly you let out a pathetic, frustrated whimper, unable to get yourself out of this current predicament:
Eight months pregnant. And trapped in a beanbag chair.
You had no one to blame but yourself.
No, wait a minute, you thought, pausing with a frown on your face. You wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for the fact that you were pregnant and tired, and this beanbag chair had happened to be the most comfortable thing you had sat on in the past eight months.
You didn’t blame the baby. No, this wasn’t the baby’s fault. It was—
“ZAYNIE!” you yelled for your husband at the top of your lungs. Immediately, you heard frantic footsteps racing down the hallways before he stumbled into the recreational room, looking absolutely befuddled as he watched you sitting on the beanbag chair with a pout and arms crossed over your chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, panting and stumbling his way over to kneel next to you. He went into full on doctor-mode, checking you all over for anything amiss. “Are you alright? What’s the matter?”
“I’m stuck.”
He stared at you.
“P-pardon?”
“I’m stuck,” you repeated in the same blank tone.
“You’re… stuck?”
You nodded.
Zayne took this time to take in the full picture before him: His heavily eight-month-pregnant pouting wife sitting in a large pink beanbag chair that had conformed around her body.
He quickly cleared his throat, a transparent attempt to stifle his sudden amused chuckles. Seeing your immediate glare, he cleared his throat again, explaining audaciously, “Dry air. We should get a humidifier in here later.” Before you could even retort, he continued, the shade of amusement not missed in his voice, or the little smile forming on his face, “Are you sure?”
You glared at him. “Yes.”
“Have you—”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should—”
“Zayne! Help me!”
He laughed as you thrashed in your seat. Quickly though, you slumped back, breathing heavily as you cradled your large belly. You humphed at him, your head turned away defiantly, and you whispered sulkily with tears brimming in your eyes, “You’re laughing at me.”
Your husband’s laughter came to a sudden stop, clearly concerned by your fluctuating emotions. He leaned in closer, the tips of his fingers under your chin, guiding you to look at him. Your gaze remained stubbornly averted, and you heard your husband sighing helplessly. He wiped the tears from your eyes.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he explained gently, giving you a soft smile when you continued to glare at him. His voice remained gentle as he continued speaking, letting his affections for you coat each word, “You looked so cute just then. I wondered how I was so lucky to have you—and have you as the mother of my child.”
Peering up at him, you saw the sincerity in your husband’s hazel eyes. You couldn’t stay angry at him even if you had wanted to. “You’re so unfair…”
“I am not,” he countered playfully, his forehead pressed to yours.
You smiled at him. “Zaynie?”
“What is it, my love?” he answered back with the same gentle smile.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
His body shook with laughter, already helping you to your feet before you could get upset at him again. Once you were steady on your feet, you let out a relieved sigh, with one hand on your lower aching back and the other holding your almost full-term belly.
Zayne rested his large hand over your bump, his smile widening when he felt the baby moved. “Just a few more weeks,” he responded as he caressed your belly. “Thank you, my love.”
“For what?” you looked at your husband confused.
“For everything,” he said simply, his arms wrapped around you.
You snuggled in his embrace before looking up at him again, smiling sweetly at him the same way you did on your wedding day. He gazed into your own eyes, his expression mirroring yours, overwhelmed by his growing love and joy during this wonderous time.
“You’re pressing the baby into my bladder right now.”
“I love you, too.”