LUCENT

58

NADIRA

As I waddle around the room with the grace of a watermelon on toothpicks, I can't help but feel like a beached whale. Tayyib, bless his oblivious heart, seems to think I'm carrying a delicate bouquet in my belly instead of two tiny humans who have apparently taken up kickboxing as a hobby. I've tried dropping subtle hints about how I'm tired of feeling like a cross between a turtle stuck on its back and a penguin trying to waddle its way to the South Pole, but its either he hasn't picked up on them, or he refuses to acknowledge them. 

My gaze falls on him, and I take a breath before walking over to negotiate my way out of this nine-month sentence with the finesse of a seasoned diplomat. "Tayyib," I say, mustering every ounce of charm I have left amidst the hormonal tsunami ravaging my body,

"Yes, my love," he answers, setting his laptop on the coffee table. 

I link my arm with his and snuggle closer into him. "You love me, right?"

"Do you want to eat something?" he asks, looking down at me. 

I smile and shake my head before sitting more upright to make better eye contact. "I really do love carrying our babies, but if I have to endure one more night of heartburn that feels like Mount Vesuvius erupting in my oesophagus, I might just push you off a cliff," I state. I would never harm him, but I want to scare him a bit. 

I watch as his expression morphs from confusion to concern, finally landing somewhere in the realm of mild panic. He cups my cheeks and gives me a small smile. "I understand that it's hard, my love, but they're not due for another week," he protests. 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes so far back into my head that they get stuck there and instead opt for a sympathetic smile, patting his hand as if consoling a child who's just had his candy stolen. "I understand your concern, but consider this induction not just for me but for the greater good of humanity. After all, you wouldn't want our babies to be born into a world where mommy's mood swings rival those of a hormonal grizzly bear, now would you?"

He chuckles and kisses my forehead. "No, I don't want that."

I grin and seal my argument with a kiss. "I'm glad you caved before I started considering more drastic measures, like staging a hunger strike." 

He laughs again, this time more heartily. "You wouldn't survive that."

I join in on his laughter. "I definitely wouldn't have. And speaking of hunger, I want olives and peanut butter."

"I'll grab them from the pantry," he says, standing up. "Anything else?" he adds as he approaches the door. 

"Ice cream and heat up the rice I brought from my parent's house, please," I answer. He nods and heads out. 

Happily, I sink into the couch and kick my feet up. When Tayyib returns, I dig into my feast, dipping my olives into the peanut butter before following it with a mouthful of ice cream. Tayyib watches with the most normal expression. I've eaten weirder things during this pregnancy, and none seemed to phase him. 

Tayyib's patience throughout my pregnancy could rival that of a saint—he endured my cravings, mood swings, and midnight bathroom trips with a grin that could outshine the sun. He'd Google symptoms at 3 a.m. and reassure me with his newfound medical expertise, even if it meant diagnosing me with "pregnancy brain" for the umpteenth time.

His support was my anchor, whether rubbing my swollen feet or listening intently to my rants about swollen ankles and backaches. He offered sympathy and foot massages without complaint. Amidst the chaos of impending parenthood, he remained my steady rock. With him by my side, I felt like we could conquer the world—one sleepless night and baby hiccup at a time.