A week ago I became a father again for the second time. My second daughter Sophia was born in the early hours of 4^th Feb after a labour and birth so fast; she could have broken the Olympic record for the baby luge. You hear horror stories about women enduring hours in labour, our second daughter was born in just over 30 mins; we didn’t even need to pay for the parking. My dad said, “She’s got Yorkshire genes that one, you could have kept the engine running son!” When they gave her to my wife she still had her coat on, a parker with a furry hood, it was like Kenny from South Park had just given birth.

Our first daughter, Olivia, who is now 5, although she’s 3 when we go to the local swimming baths (an old trick of my fathers, “get on board with the fraud” as he used to say) was born just as quick too. My wife seems to be able to push out children with the pelvic power of a Russian gymnast who’s spent their life in the circus. With both births we were a traffic light change away from having them in the car. I often think it’s a shame we didn’t as it would have made naming them a doddle. “Have you met my daughters, Ford Focus Saloon and her sister Kia Sportswagon!”

At the NCT groups they encourage you to write a birthing plan for when you have your baby. We wrote one for our first child birth, it was quite specific. We would arrive in plenty of time at the hospital, my wife, dressed in a new silk Kimono with matching toenails, would stride though the hospital to her room, listening the best of pan pipe moods on the Ipod, I would be behind her scattering fresh lavender and whispering motivational thoughts. She would then hop onto the bed and gently and calmly, give birth.

The reality was of course very different. Her waters went in the car, we ran across the car park screaming, my wife due to the pain, I over the extortionate parking prices and our daughters’ head appeared in the corridor. I didn’t even have time to scatter the lavender; we had to make do with a few squirts of Febreeze. I also suggested this as a name for our daughter but was sternly told to shut it.

If the first birth was dramatic, the second one, like any good horror movie sequel was faster, louder and way gorier. People often say that child birth is magical, beautiful even. I agree it’s pretty amazing, but to describe it as magical isn’t correct. If it is magical then that magician is a psychopath who’s strangled his rabbits, chopped off his assistants head and forced his doves into a blender. I really think childbirth is the one thing that reminds us that we are all indeed just animals.

This time we almost didn’t make it to the hospital at all. As I skidded into the car park, pulling off a handbrake turn that even the Stig would’ve been proud of, the baby’s head had appeared. This was incidentally, a new car. It’s an unwritten rule that as soon as you are about to father a second child, you are marched at gunpoint to the nearest car dealers and forced to purchase a people carrier. There are many optional extras; a scattering of yogurt covered raisins across the back seats, the best of Deep Purple on compact disc and a setting built into the back seats to trigger your children to need the toilet on any stretch of the motorway with no services and no hard shoulder.

Obviously when we were asked where we would like to have the baby, I didn’t say in a mid-priced family car with extra leg room and air-conditioning; I said Queens Medical Centre, City Hospital or my preferred choice, Waitrose. Mainly because I would like her to have the best start in life, it’s the nearest she’s going to get to a private education. Imagine the advantage of being born in between the Quinoa and the Quails eggs; she’s bound to excel.

Once again I got the chance to cut the umbilical cord; I felt like I was a mayor opening a supermarket, “I now declare our social life, over!” This is the thing you need to understand about me, I make jokes to try and diffuse tension. If you’ve ever watched the programme “one born every minute” you’d know that in the mayhem of a labour suite a man is already surplus to requirements; you’re just generally getting in the way. Well a man who is also a comedian is as useful in this situation as a Yorkshireman at a charity auction. My wife made the passing remark; “oh, ignore my husband he’s a bit of a comedian” the midwife didn’t understand that she meant this in a professional context, she may well have said: “oh, ignore my husband; he’s a bit of a dickhead.” Yet despite this I think I still managed to pull a pretty good joke out of the bag. Emotional, under pressure and whilst cradling my new daughter I said; “When you think about it a midwife and a comedian have a lot in common, it’s all in the delivery!” the midwife didn’t laugh, she just looked at my wife, who raised her eyes, looked away and then said; “Well, I suppose I best fetch the weighing scales” what an idiot I am.

Now it’s been five years since we’ve had a baby in the house and these are the top three things I’d forgotten all about:

Baby Hygiene

There is nothing filthier in the world than the folds of a baby’s neck. Given the choice of cleaning that or a bottom crease, I’d take the bottom any day of the week. It’s unbelievable, she’s barely been on this earth for a week and it’s like running your finger inside the hem of a marathon runners shorts. It’s not just the stale milk, its fluff, and other substances that even scientists’ in a lab couldn’t identify. I feel like I’m rummaging down the back of a sofa in a crack den. My wife lost my car keys the other day, “I’ve checked everywhere” she said, “Have you checked the baby’s neck?” I replied, “Have a look for mine in there too whilst you’re at it!”

Seriously there is more DNA and bacteria in that neck, if you took a swab you could go home and grow yourself another child.

I’ve also forgotten the sheer terror of running the gauntlet of walking down my own hall way whilst avoiding the incoming shelling of nappy bags been thrown from the landing by my tired and irritable wife. I got hit yesterday, full on the back of the head; it’s like living in the trenches.

Night Noises

I forgot how much noise babies make. I’m not talking about the crying, I’m talking about the continual low level grunts, snorts and whistles. Like fridge freezers babies just make these low level noises all night. The first night when we got home it was like sharing a room with Gollum. Last night she let out a wheeze so long and deep it was like someone had trod on a bagpipe.

Old people love babies

It’s amazing the power having a new born baby in the house can bring. People have been very generous. We’ve had amazing presents; as much cake as you can eat and all we have had to do in return is let them look at this tiny human. I always feel it’s a bit one way at the moment; she can’t even say thank you. It’s like looking after a pork loin joint, you just have to make sure you check on it every now and then. She is amazing but doesn’t do much. Although I have noticed that, like with many newborn babies she only looks like two people at the moment; an angry, miniature Jack Nicholson or a generic nightclub doorman.

When you are out for a walk that’s when things get interesting. Old people love babies, regardless of whether they know who you are not. I’ve often wondered if they think that babies have some sort of life giving power, a bit like the character Rogue in X-Men, who could remove the powers, physical strength and memories from anyone she touches; I wonder if they think they can grab the youth from them by giving them a quick cuddle. I regular have to run the gauntlet when I’m out with the pram. I got ambushed the other day by two of them in the park; they came at me like police squad cars boxing in a joyrider. Lovely old ladies and they did mean well. Their heads went straight into the pram, cooing with excitement I then had to then field the usual questions:

“What’s her name?”

“When was she born?”

“How much did she weigh?”

That last question I have always found a little baffling. It’s a human not a fish, what is the obsession people have with this statistic? Is there a massive game of guess the weight of the baby that I am unaware of? Congratulations, the winning weight was 8lb 7oz; you’ve won the George Forman Grill! It’s always the question people ask, but I suppose when she is a new born baby that’s the most appropriate time to ask this. You couldn’t approach a fully grown adult in the park and ask them how much they weighed; I mean you could, but expect to get slapped.

Right, I’m off to check my warranty booklet for the people carrier to see if “almost having a child in the front seat” is covered.

I would say that becoming a father again has been an unforgettable and amazing experience and just like with the first birth I am left with one overriding thought; thank Christ I am a man.