I was sitting in the den the other, feeding the baby and watching a little TV, when my indefatigable assistant bounced into the room to ask me something undoubtedly important and work-related.

“Oh!” she said, looking at the screen. “Are you watching Beerfest again?”

At first, I blurted “No!”

Then I downgraded that to, “Maybe.”

Then I patiently explained that there were important plot points that I’d missed the first time I’d watched it, at two in the morning on Saturday. Or possibly Sunday. It’s all kind of a blur. Then I said, “stop judging me!” and quietly wondered whether I’d ever had her sign one of those nondisclosure agreements, in which she would promise never to write a tell-all book about the hell that is my employ. (And this may just be the sleep deprivation talking, but Beerfest is a damn funny movie).

Prior to the baby’s birth, I packed a suitcase with all the stuff you need in the hospital: robe and slippers, cell phone and charger, sassy, specially-purchased outfit for baby to wear home. And on the appointed day, I shucked off her hospital tee shirt and put her into her outfit.

The outfit didn’t fit.

Phoebe, you’ll remember, was born weighing seven pounds, and when I slipped her into her Japanese-print kimono-style footed one-piece outfit, complete with matching blanket and hat, she looked like one of the Project Runway ladies who’d recently lost sixty pounds and hadn’t acquired new clothing. Her arms floated in the sleeves, her toes barely scraped the outfit’s knees, and the hat settled gently over the bridge of her nose.

“You need a smaller size,” said my husband.

“There is no smaller size!” I said, pointing to the 0-to-3-months label. “What’s smaller than zero?”

I have since learned to my chagrin that I was wrong. There is a smaller size than zero. There is size Newborn, which fits babies up to eight pounds, and which I never needed the first time around, because Phoebe’s big sister was born two weeks late and never weighed less than eight pounds.

If I was feeling really cynical, I’d say that this was evidence of the Rachel Zoe-fication of the infant world, the seeds of girls’ endless desire to be smaller, matched by an endless abundance of clothing in tinier and tinier sizes.

Instead, I just shlepped off to Babies R Us and bought some size Newborn onesies and pajamas. Which the girl outgrew in her first month on the planet. Luckily, the one friend I have who’s expecting has demonstrated a tendency toward having teeny tiny babies, so I washed and folded everything and will be handing it off to her shortly.