Dad pride.

Our daughter is over seven weeks old now. Already I struggle to remember when she wasn't here. Really I should have been more diligent in documenting her progress through life, because many of her developments have been and gone.

By way of apology, I hope that you will accept this list of Excellent Things My Daughter Can Do:

Change colour. They say babies like routine. One of our daughter's is to cry and cry and cry until she goes purple every evening. This is not fun, but it does seem to clear her sinuses (see below). Also we have recently discovered that bathtime can be an effective and enjoyable antidote to this.

Genuinely smile. After weeks of getting willfully overexcited about the facial expressions babies make when they fart, we are now certain that, under the correct jiggly conditions, our daughter does actual, proper grinning. And there is nothing more rewarding to look at.

Grow. She puts on over a pound a week on average, and is already over a stone. Most supermodels weigh less than this, which somehow means that I can proudly tell people my daughter is better than a supermodel. She actually is more beautiful than any I can think of.

Withstand an horrific illness. I think our daughter is just coming to the end of her suffering, caused by the worst cold ever conceived by biology. I know it was this bad because I gave it to her. I feel very guilty about this, despite not really having been able to help it. For over a week, our daughter was unable to eat and breathe at the same time. She barely slept as a result of the frequent panic caused by her respiratory troubles and, I suspect, very hurty sinuses. Mercifully, although still snotty, she has noticeably brightened up over the past few days, so is hopefully over the worst.

Press-ups. Our daughter has always been a big fan of lying on her front, on mummy or daddy's chest. When she finds herself doing this with her arms underneath her, her usual inclination is to lift herself up and gaze curiously into whoever's eyes she is confronted with. Should these eyes be yours, you will find it impossible to resist saying "Ahhhhh", and being very impressed by her strength and stamina: she can stay up there for hours.

Stand up. Almost. Obviously it will be several months before she doesn't need some guidance and assistance, but our daughter can very nearly support her own weight on her legs. Some killjoy told me that this is perfectly normal and therefore unimpressive, but I think it's one of the more amazing of her achievements.

There are, of course more. But I have to go to work.

Manly manness.

Towards the end of my first week at secondary school, I had what was probably really just a bit of a tantrum, but felt to me like a harrowing nervous breakdown. This was as a result of the realisation dawning upon me that I had entered a cycle of responsibility that seemed infinite. Lessons were followed by homework, which was followed by a bit of sleep (during which I was asleep, and therefore unappreciative of my freedom), followed by lessons, and so on.

Of course I soon discovered that I could still make time to watch Neighbours and play football, and subsequently felt a bit silly about my nervous breakdown. But I concluded that silly was preferable to harrowing, and was therefore happy with this progression.

Since discovering that my wife was with child, my quite self-involved nature dictated that I wondered whether fatherhood would change me. Would I become more assertive, decisive and generally manly? Or, conversely, would I enter a new cycle of infinite responsibility, and be paralysed once again by its unrelenting pressure?

Upon our daughter's birth, therefore, I relished the chance to assess the imminent evidence in relation to these questions. For a few days I bravely smiled at strangers and spoke clearly in public. But then the initial euphoria wore off and the real test began. My subconscious prepared to sit back and observe with studious interest what was to become of me.

I did have previous experience of cooking, cleaning, washing and that sort of thing. But I had always carried out these activities with a sense of reluctance which is only apparent to me now because it has all but disappeared. I don't think this is down to any increased sense of responsibility; rather - when compared to trying to stop somebody you love, whose only means of telling you what's wrong is by crying, from crying - hoovering doesn't feel like such a chore.

So these sorts of tasks have become minor distractions, like cleaning my teeth in the morning. I used to hate doing that until I had to start shaving. It's all relative.

I also found the motivation to do the big, butch jobs which I had previously found easy to put off. In one act of afternoon spontaneity, I cleared the ominous jungle which has dominated and rendered useless our greenhouse since we moved in. I drew on hidden reserves of testosterone to hack away at the stubborn triffids, courageously avoiding all the big spiders and bees. The resultant mountain of rubbish and garden waste was quickly and efficiently despatched to the tip that very afternoon.

This is how dads spend their time. I was settling into my role nicely. I even considered washing the car afterwards, but everyone has their limits.

I've been back at work for a week now, and am yet to truly rediscover the air of jaded cynicism I traditionally bring to my job (whilst always performing it to the very highest standard, of course). Is this the result of a new, more mature and paternal perspective?

So the early signs are, on the face of it, that fatherhood is making a man of me. I'm more responsible, hard working and mature.

And yet I still play computer games on my lunch break. I still think flatulence is quite funny. I still find myself unable to resist manipulating any possible situation towards me watching football. So maybe the early signs are misleading. Or maybe these are simply the necessary means of relieving the pressure, thus avoiding another tantrum. What I have learned - which I hadn't when I was eleven - is that you cope with the responsibility because you have to.

The one thing about which I can be conclusive is that I care a lot less than I did six weeks ago about whether anybody else thinks I'm a manly man. I just want my daughter to be happy. Which I think means that, manly or not, I'm definitely a dad.