As of Friday morning, two centimeters and a bit, but no contractions to speak of. Dum dee dum. I have been instructed at work to remain pregnant until I finish a few more particularly icky speeches, then I am free to go ahead and have my baby, if I must. Thirty-six weeks and three days. I know that most women with more than one kid say "Oh, with my first I always knew how many weeks I was, but now I just can't keep track." Me, I always know to the day.
All I want to do, personally, is knit like a fiend. I have so much I want to knit, and I remember very well exactly how much knitting time I had after Iyyar was born (a sock and a half over my twelve-week maternity leave). Current goal is at least finishing the socks I'm making for my midwife, and ideally also the purple Shetland spiral-yoke sweater I'm making to replace the orange Shetland spiral-yoke sweater that is not really publicly presentable anymore. I'm trying not to have any ambitions beyond that.
Right now, though, it's late and if I'm not going to write any speeches (which, at this point, I'm obviously not) I'd better go to bed. Shavua tov.