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We’ve reached that stage. That stage in the pregnancy where I am willing to do just about anything to hurry along my body’s journey to labor.

I am over being pregnant, y’all.

Over. It.

I may have pushed myself a little too hard yesterday. A walk to town with Sunny in 80 degree weather was the start of the problem. Then I came home, and instead of  heeding the beat red warning of my face, I decided that James and I needed to finish organizing and unpacking every last bit of infant paraphernalia stored in our home.

This involved completely rearranging the kitchen to make room for bottles, and breast pumps, and sterilization steamers.

It included pulling down mounds of blankets, and bibs, and burp clothes, and infant carriers, and bedding from their storage perches and folding and sorting the chaos.

It entailed dragging infant swings, and Bumbos, and vibrating chairs, and bathtubs from the basement and assembling each item.

And then we had to make room for each of said items, which involved rethinking the arrangement of Sunny’s toys and an overhaul of our living spaces.

Sunny raced around the piles of new goodies and delighted in thieving bottles from the kitchen and hiding them in her own play kitchen for use when she plays with her baby doll.

Precious indeed.

Although I was so hyped up on UNPACKING EVERYTHING, DAMN IT, that I barely took the time to revel in her big sisterly impulses.

By the time James and I crawled in bed at midnight, my vagina and the Sesame Seed were officially staging a protest of contempt for being overworked.

Like the Sesame Seed had to do anything but float in her amniotic swimming pool. I wish I were so lucky.

That didn’t seem to matter to her, as during the day she managed to sink even lower down my body (how she is not exiting my person at this stage defies physics), causing unmatched soreness and a waddle that makes Jemima Puddle Duck look like freakin’ Gisele.

It also started a series of contractions. One would think I’d be thrilled… CONTRACTIONS = LABOR = BABY = END OF PREGNANCY! The light at the end of the birth canal!

Alas, these contractions were of the faux nature. The kind that like to tease you, spit on your food, give you a wet willy, and run screaming the other way. They are just uncomfortable enough to keep you from slumber but not productive enough to lead to baby evacuation.

After two hours of counting the minutes between my uterus’ next onslaught of wedgies or liver pokes or other assorted pranks (Braxton Hicks, you are a cruel bully), I decided to take matters into my own hands.

Either we were going to really get this party started, or I was putting an end to this nonsense.

So I did what any pregnant woman who has been armed with all the wives’ tales of labor induction would do. I elbowed my husband in the gut and demanded that he have sex with me. And it better involve nipple tweaking.

A less-than-romantic 20 minutes later, the contractions had stopped. But the lady parts were still rebelling.

Solution?

Me: I need an ice pack. I’m not going to be able to sleep with this pain. I don’t think I could even make it to the freezer with this amount of pressure.

Him: Fiiiine.

Me: Don’t you give me that attitude. I just woke you up for sex. And I have to carry this baby around 24/7 while you only have to suffer through my neediness on account of this baby 22 out of 24 hours of the day. YOU GET TWO HOURS OF RESPITE. I get no such thing.

Him: Yeah, yeah. *shuffles off to kitchen and returns with ice pack*

Me: That is like the least friendly or accommodating ice pack in the history of ice packs. Couldn’t you have grabbed something more malleable like frozen peas or corn?

Him: Honestly, I didn’t want our food wedged between your groin all night. It didn’t seem sanitary.

Me: Oh please, I have underwear on and that shit is covered in plastic. We’ll throw out the bag tomorrow if it grosses you out that much but right now my vagina is taking precedence over frozen food.

And that, folks, is the story of how I got intimate with frosty peas. You’re welcome.