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.
