I'm tired of waiting to ovulate. Every night, I swear, "This is it! I'm going to see that temp jump tomorrow!" and then nothing happens. This is one long follicular phase I'm going through. It's a good thing that we're planning a non-medicalized childbirth, because at this rate, the "due date wheel" isn't going to come anywhere close to accuracy.

I should probably call the midwives back sometime, just to let them know that we haven't dropped off the face of the planet. I still want to use the ones we interviewed with, especially now that one of my pregnant friends is using them too, and she's happy with her decision.

Had to make another bulletin board today. I think I'm getting better at this; I cut out a toddler-sized figure in shorts and a tee-shirt, running and waving in a field of colorful flowers. He actually looks pretty good! I named him Harry; don't ask me why. And yeah, I'm aware that every decent bulletin board puts that responsibility even more firmly in my pocket. This time, nobody even offered to help me.

As I worked, I joked that I was "channeling the spirit of my mother." I can't remember if I've written this before, but my mom was a professional crafter when my brother and I were growing up. It started as a little hobby while she was being a stay-at-home mom; she made "Baby in a Blanket" handpuppets and country crafts. Eventually she teamed up with a group of ladies from our church, and she started making shadow box figurines. Our basement smelled like turpentine, and her hands were always tired from sanding alphabet blocks. She enjoyed it, though, and the money from her crafts paid for my music lessons.

Mom was talented. She sewed little outfits for all of my dolls when I was little, and could repair any outfit that our playtime had ruined. I tried to do a few stitches, but it's patently obvious that I did not inherit my mother's ability to work with my hands. Not that I gave up; for Christmas during my senior year of high school, I gifted all of my friends with hand-crafted autograph dolls. That was about the extent of my ability, but the gang loved them.

Actually, come to think of it, some of my best work has been on dolls. When I took sewing in junior high school, I made my little brother a stuffed dog. It was supposed to be a surprise, so I had him help me pick out the material under the guise of making a gym bag. He, being a typical seven-year-old, settled on a camouflage print and couldn't be dissuaded. He later named the dog "Cami."

We have an adult page here who recently immigrated from Wales. She loves to knit, and has promised to teach me how. I'm hopeful, but not terribly optimistic about discovering a hidden talent. Eric, upon hearing the news, said, "Great! You can knit me some sweaters!"

I responded, "How about a blanket, dear? A nice, flat, uncomplicated blanket."

I called Mom last night. At first I thought I had woken her, because her voice was so deep and gravely. Apparently not. She says the doctor claims he didn't touch her voice box, but she thinks the tubes down her throat may have permanently done something. She can't hit high notes when she sings anymore.

I tried to lighten the mood, telling her that alto parts weren't all that bad; I'm a contralto myself, so I know whereof I speak. I told her to think of all the lovely, deep singing women out there, especially in jazz. I hope she's not worrying herself too much over it.

The night of Dad's surgery, Mom told me, he gave her a scare. He probably shouldn't have checked himself out of the hospital that day; in the evening, he went into the bathroom, got dizzy, and promptly passed out against the door, blocking it closed and blocking himself off from help. After a few minutes of Mom and her mother pounding on the door and yelling, he came to. He cut himself up on the door and bloodied his nose, but he was otherwise fine. I wish he wouldn't push himself! He should have stayed in the hospital if he wasn't feeling well!

In other news, my parents are getting a new computer. Right now they're using my old Toshiba laptop, running DOS, and connecting to the internet with a shell account. They're moving on up with this new purchase; I don't know all the details yet, but they'll finally be able to browse the Web! (Mom was too afraid to use Lynx.)

I rather wish Mom hadn't said this, but she did. "We were looking at getting a new computer a few weeks ago, but your father wanted to wait until after his surgery, in case anything should happen to him." Oh, that was definitely not the image I needed running through my mind. That one had me laying awake for a while, worrying about my parent's health. And my boss wonders why I look tired in the morning...

Book recommendation for the day: Monster, by Walter Dean Myers. It won the new Prinze award for young adult fiction this year. It's written like a screenplay, and is really quite innovative. The plot concerns a teenage boy on trial for felony manslaughter, who may or may not be actually guilty. I'm enjoying it muchly.