I almost can’t stand to write about food these days, which is a bit of a problem for the blog. The Newcomer, though no larger than a blueberry (ew, food reference), is wreaking havoc on my digestive system. In this way, the New One is just like the Oddnivore–my first trimester with him was a nightmare of directionless, unpredictable eating. Cravings ruled me, and I served those cravings blindly. Somehow, the urges were right.

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Tonight I am wanting music along with the bath I hope will relax away the nausea, so I sneak off to the bathroom with my laptop. My husband comes upstairs seeking said laptop–time to Skype with the MI grandparents–so my sly escape goes quite noticed.

“You can’t use your laptop in the bathtub!”

I’m not I’m not I’m not. I just want some music.

Pacified, my husband clumps down the stairs to use the other computer. I prop my laptop on the Oddnivore’s stool, and slide my finger around the trackpad until I’ve found what my subconscious has been telling me I want: ELO.

Now I am another me. Now I am years ago, in a darkened living room in Montague, Fort Wayne, Osage, Guttenberg. Waves of music wash over me and I remember the feel of carpet under my sprawled-out limbs, the bristle of dusty brown floral velour cushions under my legs, of nubby blue plaid. I sit, I lie, and I soak up the air. It is altering me. And I alter it, too, as I dance or I spin, or we all do, Mom, Dad, sister, brothers–all in the dark, all possessed by something we can’t touch but are also convinced is in another way completely palpable.

I am four, six, ten, thirteen, seventeen and everything between, and I am no longer nauseous.

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After I drain my bath, I crawl into my robe and sprawl out on my bed, ELO still playing, mind still displaced. Still in then. But behind the music is the reverberation of feet on stairs, and the Oddnivore and Dad burst into the room. My husband sits next to me and the Oddnivore climbs onto the bed, but he has no intention of sitting. Suddenly he is dancing, his little arms and legs bouncing him around the rather buoyant dance floor that is our mattress. He laughs, and asks for more and more songs. And I do not deny him what he is after.

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