Before our teens, the official line was that girls were stinky and liking boys was only something you would scribble about in your diary, words nestled among hearts and stars and practice signatures using my surname. But we both always knew we liked each other. There were some odd ways in which you would show your affection towards me, especially when egged on by other people: that time you locked me in my wardrobe and sprayed deodorant through the crack between the doors was especially hard to perceive as a sign that you ‘fancied’ me. Still, sat there, nestled amongst shirts and trousers with the pungent waft of Lynx Africa making me a little light-headed, I knew you were the one for me.

Somehow, even though you turned many heads, you saw mine, and we began going out. Everyone said they knew we’d end up together. We were still quite young, and so whenever you came to mine or I visited yours we were told to keep the bedroom door open. One day, we told your parents we were going to the cinema to see Toy Story, and we snuck into The Beach instead. Guilt-ridden, you told your mum. I still don’t think she’s ever really forgiven us. When the film was finished we laid on a bank of grass behind Showcase Cinemas and I kissed the little scar behind your right ear. This only happened after the third or fourth cinema visit, of course: the first couple of times I spent the film panicking about the fact that I had to kiss you when it finished, because that’s what people do, right? That’s why we would often be the only ones sat in the rows of seats long after everyone else had left and the credits had rolled; I was just plucking up the courage to kiss you. And when I did, it wasn’t a slow, faces moving together affair; it was more akin to a woodpecker drumming his head against a tree trunk. Again, it was partly nerves, and partly me not really knowing what I was doing. Sorry about that.

I remember the day I asked your parents for your hand in marriage. I was stood in the kitchen doorway; your mum was cooking at the Aga and your dad was reading the newspaper. I kept having to walk into the lounge just to regain my composure, take deep breaths, wipe my sweaty palms against my trousers. Eventually, I plucked up the nerve to blurt out the question. They said yes, that I was already like a son to them. Your mum remarked how she used to change my nappy when I was a baby.

That was the most nervous I’ve ever been, even when I actually proposed to you, although you did mention how you could feel my heart beating through my chest as we waited in the night for a taxi in front of a Les Miserables poster in London. Although it wasn’t a taxi, as I’d booked a limousine to take us to a posh restaurant. At the time, I thought it was the most romantic gesture ever. I wince when I think about it now. How cheesy. But I wasn’t that nervous: I knew you’d say yes. We’re soulmates, after all, even though I hate that word.

And now we’re married, with two kids, and although I don’t get that pocket of air caught in my throat every time I see you – like I did when I waited at the school gates for you every lunchtime – I do still catch a glimpse of you every now and then, when you don’t realise I’m looking, and think about how beautiful you are. Neither of us has the energy we had when we were kids – children happen to sap that out of you, after all, but now I love you for more than just your outgoing nature and terrible taste in music. We’re older now, we worry about things like mortgages and bills and work, but I know that whatever happens we will face it together, as a family, Team Wakeling.

I’m sorry for the slushy nature of this post, and no doubt both of us will get a bit of stick. I can’t really believe I’m clicking on the ‘Publish’ button; this is meant to be a funny blog, after all. But I just thought you should know how happy I am that I got the girl.

Here are my ‘things’:

• I can’t leave a workplace toilet cubicle if I know that there’s someone else in the area, be it at the urinal or washing their hands at the sink. I think this must stem from middle school, where you’d leave the loo and everyone would be like ‘Errr, stinky head, stinky done a massive poo!’ I’m sure people in the office would be slightly more grown up, but I don’t want to run the risk of them either mocking me out loud or thinking it. I like to remain an enigma. Earlier today, I tweeted about this; unfortunately, once I did decide to venture outside the cubicle after remaining motionless for the best part of twenty minutes, I was met with the sight of a colleague – who must be the most quiet-footed guy in the West – washing his hands. My face must have been a picture.

• I can’t shower in the mornings, purely because I’d have to get up in the middle of the night to do so. You see, I have to be completely bone dry before I can put any clothes on. ‘Why not just towel yourself down?’ I hear you cry. Can’t do that, either. I have to drip-dry, sometimes stood in front of our fire in order to warm my giblets.
• I can’t stand the feel of sponges. It sends shivers down my spine. Once I was stood at a sink when someone sneaked up behind me and put a sponge on my neck. I nearly yakked everywhere.
• When I brush my teeth I move my head as well as my hand, so I look as if I’m repeatedly and quickly shaking my head at something.
• I hate steam. Can’t go into a steamy room without freaking out that the water is getting onto my skin and sticking to my clothes. It is for this reason that I don’t like steam rooms.
• I dance when I’m eating. Half the time I don’t even realise I’m doing it, but I just bob from side to side, elbows tucked in, wrists at chest height, boogying to an imaginary tune. Only when I’m eating, mind. Never on the dance floor.
• When queuing in a shop I feel an almost irresistible urge to yell my PIN at the cashier as she scans my items. Fortunately, I’ve managed to keep quiet so far.

That list is just the tip of a very weird iceberg, honestly. I guess everyone has a ‘thing’. And if you reckon you haven’t got a ‘thing’, your ‘thing’ is being a big fat liar.

Anyway, there are two great ways at the moment that you can go about buying my books at a lower price. But first, a very quick overview of the books themselves:

Goodbye, Pert Breasts: the Diary of a Newborn Dad is a week-by-week account of my experiences during the pregnancy and birth of my second son, Noah. It gives a unique insight into the sticky nine months through the eye of the father, and is brutally honest about the emotions that we experience. The second half of the book features several chapters on different aspects of fatherhood and parenting, such as dealing with your finances, the rights of the father, and how nursery rhymes are EVIL.

Teething Pains: How to Survive Being a Dad looks at fatherhood from the ages of 0 to 4, holding your manly hand and guiding you through practically every aspect of parenting, such as common illnesses and how to treat them, teething, bonding with your baby, and choosing a decent school. Watch out for the ‘feature pages’: random illustrations such as ‘What a Baby Dreams About’. ‘The Father’s Creed’ is also a must-read.

As well as being insightful and informative, these books will make you laugh. I can’t guarantee you’ll learn anything new, but you can bet your bottom dollar you’ll guffaw a good few times. Please check out the reviews on Amazon if you don’t believe me.

At the moment both books are £3 on the Kindle: and both ‘Goodbye, Pert Breasts’ and ‘Teething Pains’ boast a five-star rating and often frequent the Top 50 books on fatherhood. Please click on the book title to go to their Amazon page.

If you’d rather have a paperback version, there’s 25% off any purchase if you buy through Lulu. All you need to do is enter the code LULUBOOKUK305 at the checkout. This offer ends on 31st January, though, so be quick! Unfortunately I have little control over the Amazon pricing of paperback versions of my books, but there are often discounts – 10% at the moment.

So, there you have it. My books have been reviewed by leading parenting magazines and featured all over the Internet, so please take a look and see what you think! Let’s face it – we could all do with a good laugh…

From the upload description:

My brother-in-law, Ryan, came home for a few weeks of R&R after fighting for us all in Afghanistan since June. His two daughters didn’t know he was coming home, and were surprised with the best (slightly late) Christmas present ever.

Incidentally, the following should be read in the same voice as Bruce from Family Guy, which I may have mentioned just a few lines up there.

So I’m about ready to come out now.

Gonna go through that cervix any minute.

But I’m tired, just gonna sit tight for a few minutes.

Just gonna think about stuff. Perhaps whistle.

Oh no! I can’t whistle in all this amniotic fluid.

Never mind.

Dum-de-dum…

Whoa, contraction! That felt funny. Like a big uterus hug.

So, placenta, I’m gonna go through that exit right there any minute now.

Gonna make my momma push for a while.

Might get lodged in there for a laugh, start as I mean to go on.

Anyway placenta, it’s been fu-

WHOA!

What the?! ARGH! WHAT’S GOING ON?!

THE WORLD JUST LITERALLY OPENED UP ABOVE MY HEAD LIKE A SUNROOF

Wait…what’s a sunroof?

Who are you? What are you doing here? I’m meant to go through that hole the-

What are you doing? Get your hands off me you weird masked man!

YOU’RE NOT MY DAD!

Argh! My eyes! Can you turn down the lights? What’s going on? Oh no!

Oof. Now I’m on someone’s chest.

Are you my momma?

Just so you know, I’m gonna cry because you were too posh to push.

I don’t care if what you just did was for medical reasons. I was saying goodbye to placenta.

I’m gonna cry. A lot.

This is gonna be fun!

Embrace the bromance.

Oooohhh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

Roma-roma-maa

Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!

Want your blog bromance

I  saw your message

On your Twitter feed

It said you’d posted

And I wanted to read

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog.

Thought it was funny,

It blew me away;

I want to comment

But don’t know what to say

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog.

You know that I want you

And you know that I need you

I want it bad, our blog bromance

I read your blog and

Fell in love at first glance

You and me we have a blog bromance

Think you should join me

In a daddy breakdance

You and me we have a blog bromance

Ooohh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Ooohh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

Roma-roma-maa

Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!

Want your blog bromance.

Found you on Facebook

Thought we should be friends

Saw you out walking

 Through my long-distance lens

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog

Send you an email

You didn’t reply

Stalked you on Twitter

‘Cos you’re such a nice guy

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog

Etc., etc.

“Isn’t parenthood wonderful?” she gushes, with a little spin and a flick of her long frizzy blonde hair. You look at her, a bit like this.

Because you're cool.

And then you see it, shimmering beneath that frozen, hollow grin that you only normally see on politicians or Scientologists. The bags under her eyes give the game away, the look in her pupils that says Shoot me now. You can talk rubbish all you like, Earth Mother, you ain’t foolin’ me. Now go and suckle your teenage son whilst picking corn, or whatever it is you lot do.

Because parenthood, for the most part, is rubbish. And here’s why.

1. There’s poo everywhere. From the moment your child is born, it poos, and it doesn’t stop pooing until the day it dies. Involuntary poos which seep out of the side of nappies and somehow defy gravity to run all the way up your kid’s back. Voluntary poos which are secreted in the most inconvenient places, followed by a bellowed request for you to wipe his or her’s backside. Then, as old age hits, we’re back to the involuntary poos, and so the circle of life is complete, although if you’re lucky you’ll be dead by then. Poo. Poo. More poo. Poo everywhere.
2. Your freedom is gone. You scream for it like him out of Braveheart, but it’s gone. You won’t get it back for another 18 years at least, not fully. Congratulations: a ‘night out’ now consists of a hurried meal at a very local restaurant which is interrupted halfway through by your babysitter calling to say Timmy’s crying and he won’t shut up.
3. Tantrums. Newsflash: it is never socially acceptable to scream and yell and kick in public. Kids don’t seem to understand this, though, and will quite happily tell you they hate you in front of a trillion people, all of whom are judging you. My four year-old son threw a strop in Sainsbury’s the other day. At one point he actually lay down in front of the shopping trolley; his very own Tiananmen Square moment. Although this time the protester got run over.
4. Money? What’s money? I know not of this ‘money’ of which you speak. My wallet is thick only thanks to the fact it contains a wodge of receipts for nappies, wet wipes, formula milk, clothes, a cot, babygrows, dummies, more nappies, Calpol, baby shampoo, a Moses basket, and a bar of chocolate which I bought as a treat to stave off madness for another day.
5. You turn into the living dead. Sleep is a luxury that only childless people can afford. Instead you have to survive on four hours of broken sleep a night, which means that you spend the day looking like a crack addict. And don’t you dare tell me that your blessed little cherub sleeps through the night, or I swear on my life I will pull out your teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.