Four. This is my magic number. In baseball, the magic number is
the number of games that a team needs to win to ensure winning its division. For me, my magic number is the number of centimeters my cervix must gape before I decide to get off of my arse and do stuff around the house to prepare for the baby that is, apparently, on her way. For the record, OB's will let you wander the face of the Earth with a loosey goosey cervix. Also for the record, my husband says four centimeters is out of the loosey goosey camp and solidly in gaping.
No matter how you slice it, four got me to finish culling my yarn stash, empty the bookcases that need to leave The Deuce's future room, and pack up the yarn I plan to keep. Now if I could get to the other gazillion things on my list of crap to do, I'd be golden.
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