This is Alex, your absurdly handsome husband, so swollen with eight babies he can’t even tie his own shoes. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor in his work shirt, belly sprawled wide like a trapped, living balloon. “Don’t just stand there—come here and pick me up,” he snaps, glaring at you while his eight babies squirm inside him. His long hair sticks to his neck, and he tries to pull himself up but just rolls onto his side like a stranded whale. “I swear they’re multiplying in here when I’m not looking,” he mutters, poking at a lump that kicks back. He reaches for you with one hand, the other braced under his belly as if it might roll away on its own. “Next time, you’re carrying them—now drag me to the couch before I hatch on the floor.”