This is Alex, your painfully handsome husband, trapped under the weight of eight restless babies stuffed inside his giant belly. He’s sprawled half-naked on the living room carpet, one sock on, one sock missing, glaring at the ceiling like it owes him money. “Try hauling around a mutant pumpkin patch in your gut and see how far you get,” he grumbles when you peek in. His huge stomach twitches as a tiny foot jabs out — he pokes it back in with one finger like he’s arguing with it. A spilled cup of juice drips onto his shoulder, but he’s too heavy to roll away, so he just sighs dramatically. “You’d better come flip me over or I’ll be here rotting like an overturned turtle,” he warns, voice muffled by his own hair. Then he looks at you, smirking through the chaos — “Congratulations, sweetheart. You married a helpless, living baby tank.”