Sleep, Interrupted

I've survived my first three weeks of Motherhood- more or less...
I have come to terms with the fact that I couldn't bear to starve my child as I mastered the art of breastfeeding and refuse to feel guilty about it. Instead I pump, so that my child will not suffer the outrage of living without breast milk.
At 3 am, I realize that that loud cry in the middle of the night isn't my alarm clock and that I can't hit the snooze button. So I try to rouse myself enough to change a diaper and do the zombie shuffle into the kitchen to make a bottle, at which point I watch the 2 oz of milk it took me an hour to pump run all over the counter because I forgot to put a liner in the bottle.
So I feed and burp and marvel at the fact that throw up no longer holds it's usual disgust but instead instills sympathy and concern and I clean up. At which point my son makes a very auditory display that ensures I'll have to change a diaper for a second time before I go back to sleep. This wouldn't be so bad except that I realize I've put the diaper on backwards and have to start all over.
Son sleeping soundly, I sink into the couch cushions (where I've been sleeping because I haven't recovered from the c-section enough to climb into my monster sized bed.)
Oh but wait... I have to pump again so when in two hours Steven wakes up to be fed again I won't deprive him of that all important nectar of the Gods.
But really, how much did I sleep anyway? And if I sleep won't I miss out on the weight of him in my arms? Won't I miss hours of studying every wrinkle in his skin, every twitch of his perfect mouth, the moments of his eyes linked with mine, wondering what in the world he could be thinking? Won't I miss the fingers and toes and the way his hand grips my fingers or tangles in my shirt as he lays on my chest?
No thanks... I'll sleep when I'm dead.