Last week, I became a parent. Can I tell you what I'm not going to do? I'm not going to turn this column into a series of wry observations on fatherhood, and/or lengthy descriptions of just how brilliant my son is. A few weeks of that and you'd vomit yourself inside out, and if I wasn't writing it myself I'd be right beside you, holding your hair out of the way and rubbing your back in sympathy with each volcanic heave. There's quite enough deification of kiddywinks in the media already, thanks. The way people burble on about the joy of infants, you'd have thought babies were being beamed down from heaven to save us. A cursory glance at human history suggests otherwise.

Having said all that, I am going to burble on about babies, for one week only – and you're going to sit there and take it. And when I'm finished, you'll leave in silence. Those are the rules.

Right. So it turns out the birth of your first child is perhaps the most emotionally charged experience you'll ever have. I even put down the new Angry Birds game for 10 minutes so I could concentrate fully, and that's set in space.

You're buffeted by a range of feelings so intense, your face doesn't know how to deal with them, and keeps leaking fluid from somewhere round the eyeholes. Obviously, I can only speak for the men here. Women find childbirth far easier. Many hardly even notice it's happening, which is why they tend to break into absent-minded howls of agony instead of concentrating on the task at hand. (Incidentally, this is hardly my area of expertise, but I fail to comprehend why any sane 21st-century human would refuse an epidural. OK, you might view the full, unvarnished experience as some kind of precious rite, but come on: I heard the screams from the natural birth centre. It sounded like a werewolf exorcising a roomful of crucified sopranos.)

Labour takes ages. In the end, after hours of not-much-happening, there was a moment of drama. The entire cast of Holby City quickly filled the room and I found myself changing into a set of scrubs, in the toilet, in tears. I also held on to a sink for support. By the time I came out the crisis had passed, and my wife was smiling. We then had a further four hours of waiting, during which we both slept, after which the doctors decided to perform a caesarean.

And "perform" is right. It's the most astounding magic trick I've ever witnessed. I didn't hover round the business end. I'm not a fan of innards. What if you go mad and lean forward and dunk a biscuit in them or something? Instead I sat up "the face end", where a blue sheet was erected to protect our eyes from the Fangoria convention taking place below. Then, after some furtive rustling, they lowered the drape just enough to let you clap eyes on a squealing, squirming creature which your brain doesn't quite believe is actually there in the room. And in this moment, your universe momentarily pauses while a fundamental shift in perspective takes place.

Apologies for swearing in the presence of a child, but the first thing I thought was "Fuck me". Not just as an expression of surprise, but as a mission statement, as in: "Fuck me and what I want – from now on, my task is to protect you, whatever or whoever you are." Prior to the birth, other dads had warned me that "bonding" might not happen for weeks, even months. Also, I was worried I might simply feel nothing. Instead I felt reprogrammed, head-to-toe, in an instant. That was a shock.

Just as gap-year students like to brag about the stomach bug they caught in India, so parents like to brag about how tired and hectic their life has become since the new arrival. During the pregnancy, whenever a parent spotted me so much as eating a biscuit, they'd chortle and say: "Ho ho: enjoy eating biscuits while you can! Your biscuit-eating days are over, my friend! There'll be no time for biscuits once the baby arrives!"

All of which can make a dad-to-be somewhat apprehensive. I was worried I might simply resent the baby for disrupting my lazy, self-centred lifestyle. But the truth is this: when it actually happens, it's surprising how little you mind. Also, you eat loads of biscuits because there's no time to eat anything else.

Still, that's enough baby talk from me. I'm aware this is an uncharacteristically upbeat column by my standards, for which I apologise, as smiles sit wonkily on the collection of serviceable flesh apps I collectively call my face. I look sinister when I grin, like I'm secretly defecating in my trousers and enjoying the warm glow more than is strictly necessary. But only a cardboard man could fail to acknowledge that some things simply leave you feeling deeply, deeply happy. Call me dense or cold or both, but I wasn't anticipating the wave of euphoria I've been experiencing. It'll wear off, I'm sure, and these pages aren't the place for it anyway, but yes: I understand why people have kids. Right now, at the moment, I "get" babies.

Now let us never speak of this again.