I put out a call for used baby clothes from friends because honestly I needed something hopeful and positive right now. I don’t want to look back on this pregnancy as the time I spent 6 months teaching myself epidemiology and statistics and convincing myself that Theater was dead, forever. CARESSING AND FOLDING SMALL CLOTHES DEEP INTO THE NIGHT FEELS WAY MORE FUN. Within 24 hours, I had (SAFE CLEAN CONTACTLESS) bags of splendor dropped off at my door by kind and generous friends, which lead to Morrison finding me last night, crying, surrounded by tiny shirts and sweaters and pants. Sorting through them allowed us to learn important things about ourselves as parents, such as our kid will never wear lime green or things with Words on them. Each thing I held felt like a future that I dared to imagine. And each time I imagined that future, a dark, other future presented itself just behind my eyes, one where the rug gets pulled out from under me and I don’t even land back on the ground. But then I just picked up the next thing, and let myself back into the good future, where there is a kid with giant legs that rip through seams; a kid whose butt will LITERALLY NEVER FIT INTO THESE TINY AMAZING SHORTS.