Stories of Love

In the Mix of Bundle of Joy

"I don't wanna look," she pouted at him again. Deciding to keep facing him and refused to turn around to the mirror behind her. Her dress was absolutely stunning, and he would be greatly all excited seeing her if he weren't already feeling this tired.

She took way too long, he couldn't stand another hour of fitting dress.

They had decided to go out to the store to find her some maternal dress because apparently nothing seemed to fit into her body anymore.

Of course, his long awaited prodigy was growing happily and vastly inside his mummy's tummy. Obviously a his. He knew it would be a boy. Screw what she said about wanting a girl. He would have his proud son in his arms in the next three months.

Back to his lovely, but very pregnant and very very moody wife Leslie--don't tell her he said that. She was still eyeing him with suspiciously whinny look on her face and he knew what that meant. She was asking him if the dress looked good on her because she didn't want to look into the mirror and see herself being 'all-whaled-out-to-burst'--as she liked to say.

And with both answer yes or no came a hell's wrath setting loose, whatever he picked. Because if he said yes she would say he was a horrible liar, and if he said no she would wreck down in tears saying he didn't love her anymore.

God.

Pregnant woman.

How many times did he have to say it outloud in front of her face to make her stop doubting his feelings? He wouldn't even marry her and have a child with her if he didn't.

"Say something," she demanded suddenly, puffing her hands on either side of her sides, making a ridiculous pose, and he fought hard not to laugh at her cuteness. "What? How is it? I don't wanna look there."

There. The mirror. Of course.

Dang hormones.

"But, Les, you have to," he said pointing to the mirror as if that would make her follow his direction and just turn around.

But of course she didn't do that. She gasped and said accusingly, "Do you want to torture me?"

The hell?

"What--" He shot both his hands up in reflex, already surrendering, his blue eyes glinted in shock, "I didn't even touch you."

All he saw on her face was suddenly all red, and red. And then she fumed. And exploded.

"THAT'S THE EXACT PROBLEM!"

He cursed lowly, keeping a steady breath to handle his currently-in-monstrous-mode heavily-pregnant wife. He was hanging on a thin thread by now, by the state of her sudden anger and outburst.

Now how would he fix this one?

But then he heard her sniffed. He looked back at her to find her in the brink of tearing her eyes out now, with her face still all red.

"You don't want to touch me," she muttered with such sudden depression. She began to wail silently, her hormones definitely wrecking her inside out.

And he was starting to feel uncomfortable realizing they had quite an audiences.

"Of course I do."

"How should I know you're not lying?" She walked right to him and flushed her body--well, stomach, apparently--to him, her pointy fingers stabbing again and again into his chest, "You could have lots of women behind my back."

"And I can't even see my back," she cried again.

"Nobody could," he tried to calm her by grasping both her flailing hands. He whispered to her, "Stop making that up."