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Four years ago, when my first niece, Lauren, was born, I asked my sister-in-law a million questions about motherhood: Is tending to a baby as hard as everyone says? (Yes.) Do you really not have time to even shower some days? (Yep.) Why is the kid looking at me cross-eyed? (It's a newborn thing.)

I couldn't believe that this little human being who only slept, ate and pooped could be that time-consuming. Now I'm a new mom, and all I can say is this: I get it. But for my childless friends (who are asking me the same questions I asked my sister-in-law), it's hard to explain why it's so exhausting.

So, in between crying jags (mine), poopy diapers (his), and naptimes (mine and his), I took the time to write down what 24 hours is like in the life of new mommyhood.

Are you ready for this?!

7 a.m. It's hard to say when my day actually starts. 2 a.m.? 4:30 a.m.? Did the day ever really end? So 7 is as good a time as any to begin my diary. Henry is calling me with his wake-up cry from the bassinet next to my bed. In a zombie-like trance, I slip on the sweatpants I left crumpled on the floor, scoop him up and walk topless into the den and plop on the couch to breast-feed. I've become adept at cradling him at my boob with one hand and working the remote with the other. I flip between the "Today" show and "Good Morning America," but I don't really comprehend what Matt Lauer is droning on about.

7:15 a.m. From Henry's diaper region comes a sound so explosive, it seems as if he could propel himself like a rocket clear across the room by expelling his poop. (Don't worry. My bible -- "What to Expect the First Year" -- says this is normal for breast-fed babies.)

7:45 a.m. Breast-feeding is done. I change Henry's diaper and settle back on the couch to sing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" (note to self: must learn other lullabies), play with stuffed animals and attempt to read him children's books that, at two weeks old, he has no interest in yet.

8:10 a.m. Henry is asleep on my chest. His little face is so peaceful and sweet and lovable, I melt for the 56th time this week. I slowly get up, walk to the bassinet and gently lay him down. I hold my breath and tiptoe out of the room. Will he stay asleep?

8:12 a.m. Henry is awake. And crying. I pick him back up.

8:13–10:00 a.m. Henry and I play the fall-asleep-in-my-arms, attempt-to-put-him-down, wake-up-crying-minutes-later-so-I-pick-him-back-up game. He is winning.

10:05 a.m. I feed him again. This time I check work email and play sudoku on my iPhone with my free hand.
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10:55 a.m. I change his diaper.

11:00 a.m. Henry is knocked out. Since he didn't have a nap after his first feeding, I want to let him sleep. But I'm also trying to get him on a schedule, and according to the book "Babywise," I'm supposed to wake him up and play with him for at least 15 minutes before letting him sleep. I'm torn. And I'm tired. I put him down in the bassinet (successfully!) and crawl into bed. I'm a failure at scheduling, but I'm great at falling asleep in seconds.

12:13 p.m. Henry cries. I open my heavy eyelids, pull on my sweatpants, pick him up and head back to our breast-feeding station: the couch. (I've been sitting there so much over the past two weeks, there is an actual dent in the cushion the size of my butt. Lovely.)

12:35 p.m. I change his diaper in between boobs, because he's drifting off to sleep again.

12:55 p.m. Breast-feeding is done and Henry is wide awake. We walk around the room and I tell him what everything is ("That's a ceiling fan," "That's daddy's scotch collection.") When we pass the fridge, I grab a banana, a piece of string cheese and handful of crackers and shovel it all in my mouth in record time.

1:23 p.m. Henry is still wide awake. And crying.

1:46 p.m. I rock Henry in the rocking chair. His eyelids are getting heavy, but he is fighting sleep.

2:14 p.m. After 30 minutes of intermittent crying and dozing, Henry is now sucking on his hands, the universal symbol of hunger for newborns. But it's only been two hours since his last feeding, and I'm supposed to feed him every two-and-a-half to three hours. Plus, I know he's really tired and needs to sleep. I don't want to give him my boob, only for him to doze off five minutes into eating. But I'm also racked with guilt in not offering a breast because what if he's really hungry? None of the books I've read (and re-read and earmarked) offer the solution. And this is the point when being all alone with an infant all day every day takes its toll. I burst into tears.

2:27 p.m. Henry is giving me a funny look (undoubtedly wondering why he got stuck with an emotional train-wreck for a mother). I call my friend Millie, who has a 1-year-old daughter, for advice. "The first month is so hard," she says. "But you're doing a great job! If you think he's hungry, feed him, even if it's not been two-and-a-half hours. And don't worry -- he'll get on a schedule, eventually. Don't be so hard on yourself!"

2:35 p.m. While Millie is talking me off the ledge, Henry falls asleep in my arms. I put him in his bassinet and -- miracle of miracles -- he stays asleep.

2:36 p.m. I am now faced with (optimistically) an hour or more of baby-free time. I could take a shower and another nap (what I want to do), or I could answer emails and do some work (what I need to do). I choose work.

3:20 p.m. Henry wakes up. Time to breast-feed. Again.

4:06 p.m. Diaper change. Again.

4:12 p.m. I put Henry in his bouncy seat while I go into the kitchen and try to scrounge something for dinner (a frozen casserole that my mother made when she was here last week, and a salad).

5:15 p.m. My husband Fred is home! I've always loved when I see him after a long day, but I have never appreciated him more. He scoops Henry up from the bassinet and plays with him while I clean the kitchen, throw a load of laundry in and finish making dinner.

6:20 p.m. Time to breast-feed. I eat dinner with one hand while feeding Henry with the other.

7:05 p.m. Fred changes Henry's diaper and holds him until he falls asleep, while I do a little more work on the computer and fold laundry.

7:45 p.m. Fred puts Henry down. I could take a shower now, or I could snuggle with my husband on the couch. I choose to snuggle.

7:55 p.m. Forget snuggling -- my eyelids are closing. I go lie down in bed and am out within seconds.

9:15 p.m. Henry is crying. I shuffle with him to the breast-feeding station.

2:30 a.m. Henry is still awake. Every time I've tried to put him down he squawks, and I don't want to wake up Fred. We've been dozing in and out of sleep on the couch for the past five hours. I've fed him twice and changed his diaper three times.

3:38 a.m. Henry finally goes down! In his bassinet!

4:20 a.m. Henry is awake. And crying. I am, too.

4:30 a.m. Breast-feeding. Again.

5:15 a.m. Henry is asleep. I place him in his bassinet and pass out.

7 a.m. Henry is awake and my day begins again. I haven't cured cancer, or world hunger. I don't even think I recycled the empty milk carton yesterday. But I kept my baby alive and relatively happy for 24 more hours, and for now, that's plenty. And hey, maybe today, I'll actually get a shower.

Colleen Oakley is a new mom desperately in love with her little bundle of time-consuming joy. When she's not breast-feeding, changing diapers and second-guessing every parenting decision she makes, she's writing articles in order to save money for Henry's college education and his adult therapy bills.