If there's one thing which keeps you going through twenty-four long and painful hours on the labour ward...

... it's the knowledge that behind that curtain, there's a woman drinking a placenta smoothie and holding a baby called Olympia.

No, seriously. To be honest though, I'm not sure it was her idea. Having heard them put in the request to have her placenta blended with some fruit and served up for breakfast, the husband had to keep encouraging her to drink it. I don't think she was that keen. Without him egging her on, I'm not sure she'd have got it all down. Mind you, it was served to her with the words "Any lumps you find are fruit; I've liquidised the placenta really well", which does kind of make you lose your appetite. As for Olympia, I'm sure they'll have fun and games with her.

Sadly, Lisa turned down the chance to eat her own innards, and for us, yesterday was a day of frustration as prisoners of Her Majesty's midwives. Toby had been checked regularly throughout the night (meaning that Lisa got no sleep at all), and his temperature dropped a little at 2:30am. We'd packed plenty of baby clothes, including a tasteful white cotton hat, but the nurse felt that what Toby really needed was a hideous blue woollen balaclava, knitted by a volunteer. She even forced him into a matching cardigan. It's no wonder he was crying.

Not surprisingly, Lisa put in a request to leave first thing in the morning. They were quite happy with Toby, and agreed to the request, so I arrived at 9:20am, expecting Lisa to be waiting in her coat next to a suitcase. Unfortunately she wasn't. Despite being seen every couple of hours, the person checking Toby was a nursery nurse, not a doctor, and like all newborns, he still needed to be given the once over by a paediatrician before leaving.

So we waited. And nothing happened. Until 10:45am, when I decided my time would be better spent going to Asda for a few essentials. Like a changing mat, which we'd suddenly realised we didn't have. Nine months isn't long to prepare, you know. I ended up going to Argos too, and by the time I got back, it was 12:15pm. And still nothing had happened.

Fortunately, knowledge is power, and whilst I was away, Lisa had been empowered with the information that there'd been a mix-up somewhere, her computer records hadn't been completed properly, and as a result, Toby had been left off the paediatrician's list for that morning. They assured us they were sorting it out. Which was just as well, as Lisa had refused lunch on the grounds that she wouldn't be there.

At 1:40pm, a midwife came round to complete the paperwork, so that as soon as the paediatrician arrived, we could leave. She was then grabbed by Olympia's parents who, despite only having arrived in the night, said they'd like to leave too, and claimed they'd already been seen by the paediatrician. Bearing in mind that Lisa had been sat in the next bed all morning, and seen neither hide nor hair of a doctor, we assumed they were bluffing, and would be found out when the midwife checked their records.

But apparently not. An hour later, they were handed their discharge forms, and left. I felt like Tim Robbins in the Shawshank Redemption. Only more victimised. I'd have started a tunnel, but we only had plastic cutlery, and they'd already broken my spirit. We'd been assured a few times that they were trying to track down the paediatrician, and were very sorry for the delay, but when nothing had happened by 3:30pm, I decided I'd had enough. Lisa was on the verge of parachuting Toby out of the 12th floor window and making a break for it.

So I had a strong word with the person in charge on the desk. She told me she'd find out what was happening, and then come straight down and tell us. Twenty minutes later, a different midwife strolled into the ward with a breezy manner, apologised for the delay, handed Lisa her discharge forms, and told us we were free to go. Lisa and I looked at each other hesitantly, unsure whether to mention that we hadn't seen the paediatrician yet, but terrified she'd say "Really? Well, you've missed his afternoon rounds, so you'll have to stay till tomorrow". So we said nothing, and left.

I still think they'll come after us with a gun and a stethoscope, and I have no idea why we waited eight hours to see no one, but frankly I don't care. We just wanted to get home. And here we are, relaxed and well rested...


I stopped the film at that point, before it all ended in tears.

We've got the midwife coming round at some point today, so I need to make the place look less like a hovel. But if you want more photos, you'll find them on Toby-Gardner.com.

Every birth needs an official photographer, and fortunately ours arrived within hours...

From this point onwards, there's more than one Big Sis in my life...

And she holds a baby better than she holds a cat...

If that was Chloe, she'd have cut off the oxygen supply to the brain by now. She tends to support the head by means of a vice-like grip on the neck.

But on the subject of extreme physical violence, let me tell you about Lisa's experience of birth. If you've ever seen an episode of 'One Born Every Minute' where a dodgy character from a council estate arrives on the labour ward, flips out, and starts threatening all the staff, then you can skip this bit and just look at the photos.

After a weekend of frustration, Lisa finally went into labour at about 3am on Sunday night. She woke me up at 3:45am, but having assessed the situation carefully and concluded that it was the middle of the bloody night, I went back to sleep until five-thirty. By 6:30am, things seemed to have moved on rapidly, so Lisa phoned the hospital, and they agreed to let us go in for assessment.

By the time we got there, the contractions were every few minutes, but not as intense as the midwife wanted, so having examined Lisa and found that she was still only 2cm dilated, they sent us home again, saying it could be quite a while yet. That was at 7:45am. Readers of yesterday's blog post will know the accuracy of that statement.

So we returned home, and Lisa invited her sister over to give her a second person to punch. Less than three hours later, she said she wanted to go back to hospital, which seemed a bit premature to me, but frankly I'd rather argue with Mike Tyson in a mood than Lisa in labour, so I agreed. We got there just after 11am, and after a lot of faffing about in the triage section, they finally examined Lisa at 11:30am and found that she was almost 10cm dilated and about to give birth.

It was at that point that things got interesting. Lisa might look like a mild-mannered Mother Earth...

... but deny her an epidural, and she could take on Charles Bronson in a prison riot.

As a general rule, Lisa's quite big on pain relief, so she was asking for an epidural from the moment we walked through the door. Unfortunately, by the time they examined her, the window of opportunity was so small, and the anaesthetist so busy, that it soon became clear it was unlikely. Although I don't think that gives you the right to attack a midwife with the gas & air pipe.

As it transpired, getting Lisa onto a bed was a lot like treating Shimmy with Frontline. Not only was she hard to pin down, but there was every chance she'd slash your jugular if you tried to grab her by the wrists. At one point she reacted to the midwife's instructions by screaming "You're having a laugh!" in a crazed voice, which would have been funny, had she not been ripping the flesh off her sister's arm at the time.

Before she was onto the bed, Lisa's waters broke (suddenly, and all over our feet), and the liquid was full of meconium, which suggests the baby could be distressed. Having struggled to get a heart monitor onto a pregnant woman who's liable to hit you in the face with a gas inhaler the moment you venture within three feet of her stomach, the midwife finally checked Toby's pulse, and found it to be a bit low. She called for help, at which point things started happening very quickly.

Lisa hadn't even begun pushing at this point, but just as they asked her to try, Toby's heart rate suddenly dropped from a low 112 bpm to an alarming 60 bpm. One midwife shouted for a doctor, while the other shouted at Lisa to push as much as she possibly could, saying that we had to get the baby out now.

To my astonishment (and, I think, that of the midwives) it worked. Lisa pushed for two minutes, and Toby popped right out. The doctor hadn't even arrived yet, which was a shame, as Lisa's sister had some flesh wounds that needed attention. Not only was there meconium in the amniotic fluid, but Toby did a poo as he was delivered, which is a sign of extreme stress. Although it's something he'll have to get used to, living in this house.

As a result, they informed us that he needed to be monitored every two hours for the first twelve hours, to check that he hasn't developed Meconium Aspiration Syndrome. I told them he's a Gardner; he's not going to have aspirations. And it appears I was right. Each two-hourly check turned out to be fine.

So far, in fact, he's been the perfect baby. Although I'm writing this at 7am with no idea how the night went. Like his sister before him, he had no trouble feeding, and spent most of yesterday refusing to be separated from the breast. As long as you keep him topped up with warm milk, he's no trouble. The same goes for Lisa...

Needless to say, the hospital kept them in overnight, partly to monitor Toby, but mainly to give Lisa a chance to apologise to all the staff. I must admit, having seen Lisa swear at a midwife, and then try to garrotte her with a gas tube whilst slapping her in the face, I realise why they have panic buttons in every room. I'll be picking them up at 9am with a car seat and some handcuffs.

Toby Gardner, born at 12:10pm this afternoon, weighing 7lb 5½oz...

Lisa's not yet in a fit state to be photographed, but I'll be back when she is...

Even when you're just out there having fun, there's always a little devil on your shoulder trying to convince you to cause mayhem...

Not that she usually needs much persuading. To be honest though, her brother's just as much trouble. Not even Godot took this long to arrive.

I'm not sure if it's possible to go through labour and then not get a baby, but Lisa seems to be giving it a good go. It's more like New Labour, but all the spin doctors are from NHS Direct. I hate to use the phrase 'mucus plug' without warning, but Lisa's managed to lose two of them, and she still hasn't given birth.

Having felt like she'd experienced labour on Friday night, things calmed right down yesterday morning. But by Saturday afternoon, Lisa was showing me a wad of tissues which made me think she had a heavy cold with catarrh. From that point onwards, the contractions started up again, the backache increased, and just as we reached the stage where they looked like becoming regular...

They stopped. And nothing happened all night. But the good news (for anyone not eating their breakfast) is that Lisa lost a load more mucus this morning. At 10am I thought she'd sneezed down her leg. So there's something going on up there. Whether it'll result in a baby, though, is anyone's guess.

In the meantime, it's my 39th birthday today! Although I keep forgetting that. I think it's because Lisa hasn't made me a cake. We spent yesterday watching documentary films on Netflix to prove that fact is stranger than fiction (and to get our money's worth out of that subscription), and I've received another five documentaries on DVD today (thanks Mum, Dad, Bro and the Mother-in-law). Yesterday we saw Client 9, which was excellent, followed by Page One, which was interesting without being riveting. We were planning to watch The Most Dangerous Man in America this morning (assuming we weren't at the hospital), but having received Bus 174 for my birthday, I think that's more likely to bring on labour, so we're going with that.

In twelve hours time, we'll know if my 40th is going to be hijacked by my son's first birthday.

The trouble with this long, hot and record-breakingly dry summer we're currently experiencing, is that it leads to a high incidence of bushfires breaking out across Sussex. And since the death of Red Adair (they tried to cremate him, but he kept putting out the flames), what we're really lacking in this country, and indeed the world as a whole, is a brave fire-fighting super-hero with the courage to tackle the most fearsome of blazes single-handed.

Until now, that is...


She can even make the sound of the siren. I call her Polka Dot Gardner. She's hot stuff. And a little bit fiery.

But while Amelie's providing emergency services in the Hastings area, her baby brother's refusing to get off his bony bottom and put in an appearance. When the midwife gave Lisa a clean sweep yesterday afternoon, she said that within twenty-four hours, Lisa would probably start to experience period-like pains, after which the contractions would start, and labour would be under way.

Well, those period-like pains kicked in at 6pm yesterday evening. You've never seen such panic amongst two people old enough to know better. Having been told by the midwife that she fully expects this labour to be quick, we thought we had a matter of minutes before the head popped out. Lisa was chucking the last of her stuff into her maternity bag, and I was making sandwiches as though I was on Ready Steady Cook.

What followed was five hours of intense semi-labour. Strong pains, a lot of aching, and some irregular contractions. Lisa spent the evening on two paracetamol and a birthing ball. But by the time Paul McCartney started singing Hey Jude, things had calmed back down again. We didn't have a great night, but other than a bit of dull aching, nothing's happened since.

I tempted fate by going out to Asda this morning, but even that didn't bring on labour. I did, however, buy Amelie's present from the baby. He's coming into this world armed with a gift for his sister, so that she won't hate him when he starts getting all the attention. I've gone for a Hello Kitty 'Move n Groove' Scooter. It was either that, or a garden swing for the balcony.

In the meantime, I've been whiling away the hours by checking out our experience with Amelie. And what I discovered to my amazement, is that when Lisa went into labour last time, I was busy dreaming about penguins. Given what happened on Monday, I find that slightly unnerving. Although in 2008, I probably meant the chocolate biscuits.

I don't want to tempt fate, but I think I might need some concealer for my spot by tomorrow. Lisa and I have just been to her last antenatal appointment, and the midwife's pretty much guaranteed us a baby this weekend. Although Sunday's the due date, so she's not really sticking her neck out.

One neck which is sticking out, however, is Lisa's cervix. Apparently she's already two centimetres dilated, and the midwife could feel the baby's head. She did what's known as a 'sweep' - so called because much like Sooty & Sweep, it involves putting a glove on, saying 'izzy wizzy, let's get busy', and then performing some magic with two fingers. As a result, she discovered that Lisa's lady-parts are so close to being ready, she said she'll be amazed if we don't have a baby within twenty-four hours.

As if that wasn't enough, she added that Lisa's cervix is so stretchy and pliable, and the baby so low, that she can virtually guarantee us a quick labour. It could be the fastest opening ceremony we see all evening. I don't know whether to pop down to Asda while I've still got the chance, or just sit in the car with the engine running.

Boy, oh boy, it's a boy!


And a right troublemaker he is too. Not only has he got hold of some bubblegum in the womb, but he took two hours to show us his privates. Not even Lisa's that coy.

If you look in the top right of the photo above, you'll see that it was taken at 2:03pm. At 3:36pm we were still at it...


That's my son and heir turning his head to stare directly into the camera. There's a definite look of Skeletor about that face. Which is ironic, as his Dad looks more like He-Man.

It's a well known fact that Lisa and I are at least ten minutes late for everything, so it's a measure of how desperate Lisa was to sex her child that we were booked in at the hospital and sitting in the waiting room at 1:42pm yesterday. We were so early, I felt giddy. They called us in ahead of time too, so my prediction of us knowing our baby's gender by 2pm was looking pretty accurate.

Unfortunately, that's where it all went wrong. At the 12-week scan in January, I mentioned that our baby was lounging around on its front like a beached penguin, and frankly he hasn't moved since. As the sonographer said to us two hours later, "He clearly likes this position". To which Lisa responded "He's just like his Dad".

There are various checks and measurements they have to perform, and at the first attempt they could only complete a few. Despite prodding Lisa aggressively in the stomach (which was something I told them I was happy to help with), they couldn't get the baby to move, so after twenty minutes of ultrasound, they told us to get out. And walk around for a while. We were instructed to do a few circuits of the hospital and come back in 15 or 20 minutes.

Clearly there was no need for me to leave the comfy chairs, but in an act of selfless moral support, I agreed to accompany Lisa around the hospital. Mainly because I knew she'd never find her way back. And was likely to fall over a sick person. So we both set off for a tour of Brighton's healthcare services. And ended up at Forfars, buying Eccles Cakes.

Twenty minutes later we were back, and Lisa was jumping around the waiting room like Big Daddy on a trampoline. I helped by chanting "Easy! Easy!" like a 1980s wrestling fan, which I'm not sure went down very well.

Sadly, it wasn't quite as easy as I thought. The second scan was no better. They managed to get a couple more measurements, but it was a sexless marriage between sonographer and baby, so they said they'd give us one more chance, and if the baby didn't move, they'd have to rebook us for another scan next week.

So off we went for another walk, this time heading around Brighton College, where I offered to punch Lisa in the stomach behind the bike sheds. To my surprise, she agreed. That woman was desperate to know the sex of her baby. In the end though, I felt it would look bad if our child went back with a broken arm. We're already sending Amelie to nursery covered in cat scratches, so it's not going to take much for social services to step in.

So I rejected violence in favour of some firm jiggling. Which attracted some odd looks from passers-by. Twenty minutes later, we were back in the ultrasound room, and this time our luck was in. The baby was still on his front, but had rolled fractionally, and was too lazy to keep its legs together. They announced that it was a boy, but still needed one more measurement. In the end, the sonographer called in one of her colleagues for a second opinion, and they decided that despite not being able to accurately measure his stomach, it would be stupid to bring us back for another scan. I told them he's a Gardner, so just put it down as 'large', and we left it at that.

By this time, it was almost 4 o'clock, so Lisa headed home, while I popped back into work to show off the baby photos do an hour's hard graft. By the time I'd picked up Amelie from nursery and returned home, Lisa had been through the entire book of baby names, and made a short list of about twenty. Ten of which I crossed out immediately. Gaylord might be in the book, but that doesn't make it a valid choice.

This is my 2,500th blog post!


And this is my second baby...


Although it looks more like a weather front sweeping in from the Atlantic. Frankly I've seen clearer photos of the Loch Ness Monster, so you'll have to take my word for it.

But photographic evidence notwithstanding, the good news is that eight months after spending £500 on a DuoFertility gadget, we're definitely not getting our money back. As of today, Lisa is 13 weeks and 5 days pregnant. Which is a shock, as we thought she was only 12 weeks gone. That'll teach me to trust her with a calendar.

We've known about Lisa's status as a mother-to-be for the past eight weeks, but after two miscarriages and a lot of dashed hopes, we've been too nervous to tell anyone. On top of that, Amelie's dead set against the idea of a sibling, so we're avoiding baby talk for fear of a tantrum. The way she's coming across at the moment, she'll be there at the birth, trying to shove it back in.

It's less than a year since a top consultant looked at our test results, made a face, and advised us to spend four thousand pounds on IVF, and there have been times since when I've wondered if we were right not to. Although checking my bank statements usually convinces me that we were. As it transpires, £500 on DuoFertility was a much better investment. Especially as I got the money off my parents.

When she was pregnant with Amelie, Lisa had to go all the way to London for a nuchal scan, but fortunately they now do them about two hundred yards from our flat. So we popped in yesterday afternoon, fully braced for the worst. As it turned out, the only bad news was the quality of the photos. Amelie's nuchal scan looked like this, which compares quite favourably to the new baby's portrait...


That one's less Leonardo da Vinci, and more Pablo Picasso. It's also upside down, because the baby insisted on lounging around on its front like a beached penguin.

The important thing though, is that everything else appears normal. Not only is the baby older than everyone thought (much like its mother), but it has two arms, two legs, and a brain the size of a planet. Albeit a very small planet. We don't yet have the results of the accompanying blood test, but it appears there's no reason to worry.

On the downside, the baby's due on July 29th, which just happens to be my birthday. So I'm concerned that Lisa won't be able to get out to buy me a present. I've told her to order something online, and if necessary, I'll stay in to receive it while she pops down to the labour ward.

I'd also like to apologise to those people who have invited us to summer parties in late July or early August, and received cagey answers over the past few weeks, with no explanantion as to why we can't make it. I hope our reluctance makes a bit more sense now. Well, Lisa's reluctance. Personally I'm just not very sociable.

So that's the good news. Unfortunately the scanning of our second child wasn't the only thing going on around here yesterday. The rest of the saga will have to wait until tomorrow...

Anyone who's ploughed through the 750,000 words on this blog, might be surprised to learn that I don't mention everything that goes on in my life. I still, for example, haven't published the recording I made a few weeks ago of Lisa snoring. Which proves that blackmail can work. But in addition to Lisa's night-time respiratory problems (which, to my mind, explain the complaints we've had about drilling at unsocial hours), I've also chosen not to describe our attempts to have a second baby. Partly because this isn't a porn site, but mainly because it's hard to describe a sperm test without photos. And I couldn't hold my camera with one hand.

As it happens, on Thursday, 23rd December, Lisa and I went to see a consultant at the hospital about our failure to provide Amelie with a sibling. The doctor's name was Mr Kelada, so I was hoping his first name would be Pina, but sadly the road to fertility is strewn with disappointments, and this was just one of them. He's actually called Ehab. You can see him on the NHS though, so he's basically Rehab for people without capital. And here he is online. It's hard to believe that anyone has fewer Facebook friends than I do, but there you go. He probably doesn't ignore them as much as I do.

Mr Kelada turned out to be very friendly, and informed us that due to Lisa's great age, and the fact that we already have an Amster, the NHS won't fund any treatment, but it will fund the tests to determine if treatment is needed. It would then be up to us to decide if we're willing to pay for a baby. I didn't mention the consultation at the time, but I did write about buying kids on the internet. This blog contains so much subtext, it's scary.

Anyhoo, in the twelve weeks since that appointment, Lisa and I have undergone a battery of tests, some of them bloody, others just bloody intrusive. On Tuesday, 4th January, when I received a phone call from work on my day off, asking if I could go to Crawley the next day, I decided not to mention that I was at the hospital, holding a pot of my own sperm. I can be quite discreet when I want to be.

After a total of six tests, five for Lisa and one for me (I think I had it tougher though), we returned to see Mr Kelada at 4:30pm yesterday afternoon for the results. And the upshot is...

We're pretty normal. For our age. Which is to say that we're basically decrepit and falling apart, but it's to be expected. They managed to count 109 million sperms in the plastic pot I gave them, and whilst most of those need a motility scooter to get anywhere meaningful, there are apparently enough with a decent sense of direction to get the job done. Like their owner, they could do with being a bit more active, so he recommended that I take some Selenium, but other than that I'm ok. For a knackered bloke in his late 30s.

As for Lisa, her tubes received the all-clear, her ovarian reserves are raring to come off the bench, and she's ovulating like a battery chicken. On the downside, her FSH levels are on the upside. For those new to gynaecology, FSH stands for Follicle-Stimulating Hormone, which makes it sound like a cure for baldness, and according to Mr Kelada, for Lisa to have a good chance of conceiving, it should be below 8. Lisa's is 9.7. Which is apparently borderline, but "reasonable for someone her age". Or to put it another way, she's got about as much chance of conceiving as a woman in her 40s. Which I suppose is good news if you're Tony Blair.

I asked Ehab what he'd do in our position, and he said that if money's no object, he'd go for IVF. So he obviously hasn't seen my bank statements. He added that if he were us, he'd want to feel that he'd done everything he could, and given himself the best chance of success. Unfortunately, that chance of success is about 15% and costs £4,500 a time.

Having weighed it all up last night, I headed to Boots at lunchtime today for some Selenium. And I'm telling you now, that doesn't come cheap either. This child doesn't even exist yet, and it's already bleeding us dry.