This morning, when I groggily told my husband that I’d like to trade the baby for a toaster, I was only half-kidding.

I. am. exhausted.

A couple days ago, a teething Baby Y decided to use my left breast as a chew toy, leaving a full-on puncture wound. I couldn’t let him latch to eat on that side – it was excruciating. But I knew I still had to pump to keep up my supply and avoid engorgement.

We were traveling, though, and all I had was my little manual pump. It just couldn’t get enough out. Ever since, I have been battling a plugged duct that laughs at hot showers and warm compresses and electric pumps.

Also, our boy has decided that sleep is for the weak. We successfully unswaddled him before hitting the road for Christmas, but he’s become a crib gymnast since returning. He’ll whine or cry incessantly until we come in and find him rocking back and forth on all fours, bright-eyed and smug-looking.

Papa Y has a mountain of work, so I feel guilty passing the baby off to him. But between feeding woes and sleep battles and post-holiday exhaustion, I am running on fumes.

I burst into tears at least three times today, once in front of the baby. He found it funny. Broke into a giggle that I would find adorable under any other circumstance. And I actually seethed a little bit at my six-month-old, who knows only that Mommy was making a funny face. Dumb, I know.

Desperate, I took Baby Y to the local high school track – one of the few safe places to walk in our mountain town – for some fresh air, albeit cold, and a change of scenery.

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Of course, he promptly fell asleep.  I dutifully walked in a circle for more than an hour to make sure he would get a decent nap. I listened to some happy music on my phone. And I did feel better, at least temporarily.

But that’s just it – it was fleeting. Everything is now. Every time I think I have this figured out, some new development knocks the wind out of me. I scramble to catch up, to do right by my kiddo, and figure out a new plan to keep us all happy. Repeat ad nauseam.

Meanwhile, the trappings of my former life languish in a heap in the corner of my mind. I used to read for pleasure. I used to exercise. I used to iron my clothes. I used to put on make-up.

I am a new-mommy cliché.

And mostly, I’m OK with that because I know it will get better. I just wish I could remember that on days like today, when the tunnel seems dark, and the light at the end seems very far away.