All the world knows of Baby Sussex – the newly-born seventh in line to the throne – is a short clip of a shellshocked Prince Harry, talking about how impressed he is, not just by Meghan, but by anyone who’s ever given birth.

Looking mildly dishevelled (for him – still better put together than I ever am, ever), with fluffy, productless hair, and sporting a giddy smile, his words run into each other a bit as he tells reporters he’s now a father.

“It was amazing, absolutely incredible,” he says. “I’m so incredibly proud of my wife. As every father and parent will ever say, you know, your baby is absolutely amazing, but this little thing is absolutely to die for, so I’m just over the moon.”

Now, Prince Harry has undoubtedly seen some pretty impressive stuff in his time. He’s been all around the world, both as a pampered guest of honour and a soldier. He’s witnessed more glamour and heroism than most. But he’s totally flapped right now – because he’s just seen his wife have their son.

And he’s right to be flapped, and awestruck, and impressed, and delighted, because holy shit, what a thing to happen. I know – I’ve been there. 

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Prince Harry and I have our similarities, but there are some parts of our wives’ births that were undoubtedly different. I didn’t stand in front of horses to tell assembled press anything, opting instead to lean heavily on a vending machine and text my parents (although I’d like to think that if I had, then just like Harry, I’d have cheerfully thanked the horses afterwards).

And while we don’t know much about the birth, it’s likely to have been a bit different to ours – we went through six different stages of “maybe this’ll work” pain management before an eventual emergency C-section.

The royal couple’s first post-birth meal probably wasn’t a shitty salad from the Co-op round the corner, and Harry won’t spend the first two nights of his son’s life sleeping in the worst chair in the land on a ward with other shattered new families.

But there are some universals to having children – and awe on the part of the non-birthing parent is one of those. 

That giddiness in Harry – where he’s incredibly tired but can’t stop smiling, where he’s saying things like “in two days” rather than “on Wednesday” because he’s not necessarily 100% sure what day it is, where he’s so awestruck that he’s thanking horses for his press conference – is completely relatable.

It might be the most human a royal has ever looked, because in that moment he’s not a prince, he’s just a dude trying to wrap his head around what’s just happened.

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I stank when my daughter was born. I’d gone through about five cycles of sweating through my clothes and drying out, so was pleased when I was given scrubs. I was so exhausted – and I hope my wife doesn’t read this because she’ll get angry at me complaining about being tired – that the sudden addition of fancy dress tipped the experience over the edge into the Fully Surreal. I had a big cry in the toilets before putting them on, because I was absolutely terrified that someone was about to cut into the woman I love. 

Nobody in the operating room had an easier job than me – everyone was involved in (a) being cut open; (b) cutting someone open; (c) helping other people cut someone open; (d) fishing a baby out of the cut-open person; or (e) helping the person that had been cut open and the person cut out.

My job was pretty much limited to holding my wife’s hand, keeping calm and trying secretly to get a picture of the operation going on so she could see what her insides look like (she’s a scientist, and pretty hardcore, and wanted to see her own guts). I got told off for the last bit, and then suddenly, whoa – we had a daughter. What a mad thing. There are a certain amount of people in a room, and then without anyone going in or out of the door, there’s one more. 

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How can anyone not be in awe of someone – especially someone they love – giving birth? It’s extraordinary – this physically, mentally and emotionally demanding thing that is promptly followed up with, what, 18+ years of physical, mental and emotional demands?

If men did it, it would be treated like an athletic feat. They’d boast about how long they were in labour for, or get tattoos of the hospital, like when dudes do Tough Mudder and define themselves by it. They’d then get five-ish years off to recuperate. But we treat it as something that just happens – not necessarily acknowledging what an astonishing achievement giving birth is.

So, as everyone clamours for pictures of the new boy – and oohs and aahs about how cute he’ll inevitably be – we should remember there’s one person in the room who’s done just about the most impressive thing a human being can do.