Last month I became a dad. I wrote this journal entry seven days later and felt it encapsulated my feelings a week into fatherhood.

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Time moves too slow. A new father sits in the dark, his three-day old daughter in his lap. It’s 2 AM. His daughter cries in minute-long spurts and tries to worm her arms out of her swaddle blanket. Dad counters each move while trying to keep his daughter calm and, more importantly, quiet.

Time moves too fast. Yes, I wanted Olivia to stop crying and start sleeping. But even in a half-open-eyed slumber, I wanted to savor the moment.

Mom is sleeping in their bedroom, he hopes. They spent the previous hour pacing around the apartment, cycling through potential causes of the high-pitched pierce they’re sure has awakened their neighbors. But they don’t both need to stand guard. One can sleep while the other sits. Dad volunteered to sit. He wills his eyelids to stay up.

Everything about parenthood so far has been a fight for control. My wife and I have tried in vain to develop a routine. We have scraped together hours of sleep, first at the hospital and now at home. We have learned on the fly how to feed, clothe, change, and swaddle a tiny human who three days earlier existed only in the womb. We should want to fast-forward through this time and get to the good stuff: walking, talking, eating pizza, playing soccer, going to the prom. But then I look at Olivia, and I want time to freeze. Even when she cries, she seems perfect. She is untouched by the world and cocooned by her parents. At least that’s how it feels.

The daughter continues to cry. Dad tries his next move. He gets up from the living room couch, cradling her in his arms, and tiptoes to the guest room. This was supposed to be his daughter’s bedroom, but they decided to move her crib into their room, at least for the first few months. The rest remains: the glider chair for feeding, the dresser with a supportive top for changing, and the many items consciously placed to aid her mind. Her parents hung canvases on the wall of places they’ve visited, because they want her to know the beauty of the world. If she looks up, she will see a photo of Santorini’s sparkling blue waters and seamless horizon. But she can’t see that far yet. She can barely see one foot beyond her eyes.

When Olivia was a heartbeat and series of intermittent kicks in Karen’s stomach, I did dream big for her. And I still do. But now I feel the uncertainty that surrounds dreams. Yes, she might discover Santorini and want to travel the world. Yes, she might brim with the values we desire for her: strength, confidence, kindness, and thoughtfulness. But we can only control so much. So many paths, from so many places, will present themselves to Olivia. She will become her own person, just as I did. And the world around her will change. I would love to skip ahead a few chapters and peek at who Olivia will be in 20 years. But I also know that, in that time, she will almost certainly lose her two remaining great-grandparents. She may even lose another grandparent. It will all happen, regardless of my parental instincts and desires.

3 AM approaches. Dad checks his daughter’s diaper. Still clean. He turns up the thermostat. Still cold. He un-swaddles and re-swaddles his tiny angel. The angel still cries. Before she arrived, Dad tried to envision her life 20 years from now. Since she came, he can only envision 20 minutes. He wants his daughter to dream big, but first she must learn to sleep through the night. Time moves too slow.

I may not want Olivia to stay three days old forever, but I struggle with how quickly the present becomes the past. My wife and I finally cut our hospital bracelets earlier tonight, but I still feel the indentation against my left wrist. I don’t want it to disappear. I want to control time, but that will never happen. And so, even when time moves too slow, time moves too fast.

The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.