Day One:

Wake baby every two hours to feed her. Log feedings and diaper changes in a notebook, keeping careful records of duration, side of feeding, type of diaper, etc. Baby latches perfectly, eats well. Successfully burp baby after each feeding. Am able to sleep when baby sleeps. Smugly tell everyone who calls me how well everything is going.

Day Two:

Baby is up all night. I’m a little bleary-eyed in the morning, but nothing some caffeine and a shower can’t fix. When filling out my baby feeding log, I fudge the numbers a bit. Try to feed baby, but baby falls asleep every time. Attempt to rouse baby via tickling feet, blowing gently on ear. When that fails, drip cold water on her head and sing show tunes in her ear.

Baby cries inconsolably for 45 minutes.

Baby poops up her back. I put her on the changing pad and ponder the best way to change her onesie without shampooing her hair in fecal matter. Decide best option is to cut her out of the onesie.

Once the sun goes down, baby finally decides she wants to eat. Nonstop. For the next three hours.

Burp baby, and she spits up on me. I immediately put baby down and go to change my clothes.

I put on a “Friends” marathon.

Fall asleep.

Wake up some time later, and “Friends” has become an infomercial for a product called “Dump Cakes.”  Switch off tv in horror before baby starts crying again.

Day Three:

I fall asleep while nursing baby. Wake up with a start, look down, and notice baby is gone. I panic; look on floor, in recycling bin, finally check bassinet- no baby.

Realize my husband is holding the baby. Feel silly having checked the recycling bin before the bassinet.

Try to eat a sandwich. Before I can take a bite, baby decides she wants to marathon-feed again. As I begin to get sore, I wonder how early I can start her on solid foods.

Baby spits up on me. I rub it into my shirt with my thumb, and keep rocking her.

Mom calls to ask how it’s going. I don’t mention misplacing the baby.

Realize there is no good tv on at 3 am. Watch the infomercial about “Dump Cakes” again. Think it sounds like a really good idea.

Day Four:

Find baby asleep on my husband, who is also asleep. Pick up baby and put in bassinet. Husband wakes up half hour later and panics over missing baby. He checks the floor, the recycling bin, and finally finds her in the bassinet.

We both nervously laugh at how we keep expecting to find the baby in the recycling bin.

Baby poops all over herself again. Too tired to give her a bath; instead, we clean her with half a package of wipes.

I pump some milk so my husband can feed baby later. Am so tired that my pump sounds like it’s cheering me on, a la Charlotte from “Charlotte’s Web.” It keeps saying “What a girl, what a girl, what a girl.” I love my pump.

Day Five:

Find sandwich I made two days ago. Eat it.

While emptying the recycling bin, a neighbor informs me that I have spit-up down the back of my shirt.

Go to pick up baby to nurse her. Get settled in chair, then realize instead of baby, I am holding a loaf of bread.

Phone rings. Don’t know anyone named “Wow.” After it goes to voicemail, I realize it was “Mom” and I was holding my phone upside down.

Showered for 1^st time in five days. So tired that I wear my glasses into shower. They immediately fog up, causing me to stumble out of the shower and trip over my husband, who is fast asleep next to the toilet.

Day Six:

I am cradling the loaf of bread while blearily watching an “America’s Next Top Model” marathon. My dad comes to help with baby. He watches two episodes with me, and allows me to explain the premise (he’s right: the photographers should really get most of the credit) then politely asks if he can put the Yankee game on.

Baby poops all over herself. I debate whether I can wait until the end of the “America’s Next Top Model” episode to change her.

Shouldn’t have waited. I get the scissors.

Husband makes dinner, which consists of a block of cheese and a package of Funyuns. I fall asleep while chewing.

Tonight, I think my electric pump is saying “Redrum” over and over again. It is starting to creep me out. After pumping, I hide it in the linen closet.

Mom calls. I excitedly tell her about my talking breast pump and ask if she’s ever tried Dump Cakes. She says she’s on the other line and has to go.

Day Seven:

Wake up and see it is 4 o’clock, and I’m not sure if it’s am or pm.

Put on tv. “Law and Order” is on. Does not clear up time confusion.

Husband wants to know if we run the electric pump backwards, will it say “Paul McCartney is dead.” I tell him that makes no sense. You can’t run a pump backwards.

Also, I have no idea where it is.

I pull the baby out of the recycling bin and feed her while watching a John Wayne movie marathon. I learn a lot about how I’m glad I don’t live in the Old West.  And don’t like John Wayne movies.

Attempt to get off couch and realize my hair is glued to the cushion with baby spit up.

Baby poops all over my feeding log.  I nickname the baby “Dump Cake” and throw out the log.

Now I’ll never know if I’m doing this right.