Eat. Sweat. Play

by Anna Kessel

  Michael sings the praises of exercise for combating some of the symptoms of the menopause, particularly depression. And when I ask him about hot flushes he recommends a yoga exercise. ‘Hot flushes are often stimulated by a stressful situation; there’s a thing called alternate nose breathing. People who are about to give a talk or at committee meetings, if they sit and breathe through alternate nostrils, in through the left and out through the right, that decreases your stress and cortisol and your hot flushes.’

  Later that evening my mum calls and I tell her about my conversations. ‘Mum, the menopause sounds so scary,’ I say. ‘Oh, Anna,’ she says, ‘you don’t need to worry about any of that. You’re pregnant! And you’ve got years before the menopause starts.’ But I make a quick calculation in my head, and I haven’t got years. Not really. I’m thirty-seven. If the menopause starts in my early fifties, say, then that’s only as far away as my mid twenties, which, quite frankly, feels like only the other day. How can this huge, life-changing event be hovering just a few years ahead of me, and I know absolutely nothing about it? Why is nobody talking about this stuff? My mum tells me a bit of what she knows – she talks about HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) and depression and weight gain and osteoporosis. Then there’s incontinence and vaginal dryness. I say, ‘Mum, it feels like when you’re a kid and you find out about periods, or when you’re a young woman and you go through childbirth and realize that the whole world has been keeping this monumental secret from you.’ ‘Yes,’ says my mum, ‘it is a bit like that.’ I go to bed thinking about the menopause and what it might mean for me. Suddenly life seems very different.

  How to avoid the pregnant pause

  When Jessica Ennis-Hill announced her pregnancy in January 2014, the chorus of opinion accompanying the news was all too familiar. ‘Will she still have the ambition for it?’ ran the bulletins. ‘Is this the end of her career?’ It was like hearing a million of our own bosses, amplified across national TV and radio.

  That’s part of what made watching Jess’s world championship victory in Beijing so glorious – not only did she beat the world’s best heptathletes on the track, she beat the world’s biggest doubters off it. Her victory was our victory, and an enormous leap towards reassessing the way we routinely portray mums as washed-up human beings who can just about string a sentence together and struggle to brush their hair. Not that we need to have fabulous hair all the time. Nice hair is not helping with the need for more female presidents, neuroscientists and businesswomen. Nice hair is not going to bridge the pay gap, ladies!

  Watching Jess’s gold-medal-winning performance, just thirteen months after she gave birth to her son Reggie, was emotional. My eyes pricked with tears; I had a lump in my throat. Women’s sport does that to me anyway. But Jess’s world title meant more. It was such a calm, confident, perfectly formed riposte to anyone who had thought she was a write-off. What a woman. ‘Woman?’ said my husband. ‘She’s a superhuman!’ And it was special to see the look of awe on his face. But superhuman? Paradoxically, in my eyes at least, becoming a mother had made Jess more human than ever. Motherhood had brought her – and her incredible six-pack – that little bit closer to all of us. Because here was a person who had just been through a year of disorientating sleep patterns, maternity pads, leaky boobs, mopping sick off your clothes, trying to stick to a routine, juggling childcare and work, and ultimately feeling torn between wanting to devote your entire life to this tiny human being, and wanting to remain a person in your own right who can still achieve remarkable things. And she still went out, and rocked it.

  Over the years I have marvelled at the powerful transition Jess has undergone, from the twenty-one-year-old I first met in a sandwich shop in Sheffield many years ago, to the almighty cultural icon she is today. Back then I was interviewing Jessica Ennis, as she used to be known, as an up-and-coming track and field star. There were no PR people present, just Jess, sitting on a stool munching on a panini. She talked about her construction-worker boyfriend (now husband) Andy, her university degree in psychology, shopping with friends. She was smiley and lovely, chatty and down to earth.

  Since then she has developed into the most incredible, near indomitable, athlete. As an athletics correspondent, between 2008 and 2012, I relished seeing her compete: whether that was a windy spring afternoon in front of fifty people in Cudworth, South Yorkshire, or on a glorious track in front of thousands in New York. What I admired most was her champion’s ability to change a performance, bounce back from disappointments, excel in her weakest events just when she most needed to pull something out of the bag. Not many athletes can do that. And she always went about it so quietly, with a modest little skip and a smile to celebrate each new success across the seven events. Soon Jess and her perfectly formed abdominals became world famous. But she never really changed. She’d sit down for an interview and offer you some hand cream (‘It’s such a good one,’ she’d say, pulling a tube of Elizabeth Arden out of her kitbag and squirting out a generous blob), or she’d ask about your partner, your pregnancy, your new handbag. She could relate to anybody and everybody, the people’s princess of sport. And then she’d discreetly zoom off – in a sports car fit for a sports star, a trail of schoolboys running after her shouting, ‘We love you, Jess!’ and you’d suddenly remember just what a stellar act she was.

  The fact that Jess was brave enough to become a mother at the height of her career speaks volumes. And I do mean brave. I remember one top female athlete describing how coaches often pressured sportswomen into delaying starting a family, because children were seen as an inconvenience to their careers. It’s the same in the workplace, of course. I’d previously been told, with a grin, ‘Don’t get pregnant!’ Or there was the former boss who went on a rant about, ‘everyone having fucking children in this office!’ which he seemed particularly keen to share with me.

  And that’s why Jess should be an icon for all working mums. Because women who have children are still seen as a drain on the resources of a workplace. It should be a national scandal that in the UK 54,000 women a year lose their jobs due to maternity discrimination, and yet too many people still think women are deceiving their employers by getting pregnant, conning them into handouts. They still think that women who get pregnant are letting everyone down, and that once they return to work they will have transformed into useless, baby-obsessed, empty-headed zombies. Even if you’re not a mother, cannot have children, or don’t intend ever to have children, the repercussions of this trend are felt by all women.

  After having my daughter I was shocked at the sheer number of horror stories I heard at playgroups from lawyers, teachers, architects, journalists, marketing execs, in one case even a woman employed at a leading equality organization. And yet where is the government rhetoric? Where are the campaigns? There’s an awful lot of talk about affordable childcare, but no one seems to question the bigger picture: why don’t we actually value mothers in the workplace? This Lean In business is all very well, but mothers can’t ‘lean’ unless they’re supported. As the ‘first lady of football’ Karren Brady once told me, ‘I love employing mums, they’re extremely organized and efficient. They have to be.’ So why do we keep making it so hard for them?

  For now, in Britain at least, it seems to be sportswomen who are leading the way for mothers as empowering figures. We’ve had the air-punching inspirational story of Jo Pavey, who at forty and with two young children became a household name when she won the first ever major gold medal of her career. I had to laugh, reading about her handwashing the kids’ clothes and drying them on a windowsill during the European Championships in Zurich. And how can you not beam when she repeatedly says it was having her kids that gave her the happiness to finally excel on a major stage? I wanted to leap up and hug Jo every time she said that, because it’s a message we need to be getting out there loud and clear: having kids is not the end of your life. Women can achieve wonderful things as mothers. And it’s nothing to do with that ridiculous guilt-inducing e
xpression, ‘having it all’; it’s just about being proud of who we are as mums and having the confidence and support to go on to achieve amazing things, rather than being cast as muddled snivelling wrecks.

  I know some people find the whole motherhood and sportswomen stories thing patronizing. They argue: why can’t we just hear about their sporting achievements? Why do we need to know that they breastfed, or that they battled with pre-eclampsia? Women give birth every day, it’s no big deal. Well, I actually think it is a huge deal. It is such a huge deal that every father or partner I’ve ever met is overcome with awe and new-found respect for all women after having watched their other half go through the process. Because birth, in all of its forms, is a physical trauma. And, no, birth and motherhood shouldn’t be how we define sportswomen in that myopic way, but celebrating these stories publicly is a good thing. Because, for the most part, the physical reality of birth – and recovering from it – is hidden away. In films and TV series we only ever see a bit of huffing and puffing, maybe some screaming, and then there’s a cute baby and it’s all over.

  But that’s not the end of it. Birth is just the beginning, and I don’t mean all the challenges around adjusting to a new baby, but the physical trauma that affects postnatal women, whether they’ve had a vaginal birth and are struggling with stitches and incontinence, or have to cope with a caesarean scar that prevents them from lifting or even driving for at least six weeks after the birth. Then there’s diastasis recti which is when your abdominals don’t grow back together properly after pregnancy – a condition that is thought to affect one-third of women and causes chronic back pain – cracked and bleeding nipples, migraines from epidurals and recovering from episiotomy. As one local exercise teacher, who specializes in mothers returning to exercise post-birth, told me, ‘having a baby is like recovering from an injury’.

  All of which makes life after birth a huge hurdle for mums. And it doesn’t help that we don’t get to hear enough about the very physical reality of those experiences and how they impact on a woman’s body. That’s why I was so pleased to write up the story of former England rugby hooker and mother of one, Emma Croker, and her return to an international rugby career.24 Emma had a caesarean and was advised to wait four months before going back to training because of the additional recovery time required. As she counted the days until her return, Emma admits she was terrified of how her internal wounds would hold up to the physicality of rugby. So she did the only thing she could think of to dispel her fears. She ordered her teammate Becky Essex to run at her midriff with all her strength. Bam! Somehow the wound survived. ‘My pain threshold increased after having a baby,’ laughed Emma afterwards. Despite the fact that over 25 per cent of women in the UK give birth by caesarean – and a whopping 50 per cent in Brazil – it’s a subject for which the realities are rarely discussed in public. Indeed, I’m pretty sure that’s the first time any national newspaper has published a major article in a sports section about a C-section. I can still remember the phone call with my editor after I filed the copy. There was a pause, and a sniff. ‘There’s, um, a lot about caesareans in there,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes!’ I enthused. ‘And isn’t it such an amazing story?’ To his credit, he didn’t change a word.

  Of course, stories about motherhood are not always uplifting, because motherhood isn’t always uplifting. Sometimes it’s one almighty struggle. And if we don’t tell those stories we can’t bring about change. Take the example of Katie Chapman, England’s star midfielder for over a decade, who says she was effectively forced to retire from international duty ahead of the 2011 World Cup because she couldn’t afford the childcare. The equivalent would have been Steven Gerrard saying he had to give up his England career because he needed to look after the kids. That, of course, would never have happened because Stevie G. is paid enough money to cover the childcare costs of every woman in the England team. Female footballers, however, often have to work alongside their playing career just to make ends meet. Wages have gone up substantially in women’s football since then, but I still find it embarrassing that the FA shrugged their shoulders as one of their star players was forced to sit out the biggest tournament in the world because of childcare costs.

  By way of comparison, in the United States the women’s national team has an entirely different approach. The head coach, World Cup-winning Jill Ellis, is a mother, as are some of the star names in the team – from Christie Rampone to Shannon Boxx. The federation pays childcare expenses, from nannies to travel and accommodation. And the kids come with the team. There are kids in the hotel, kids in the dressing room and kids in the canteen. Obviously there are boundaries; they are not running free, and World Cup and Olympic finals are exempt from the arrangements, but if mothers haven’t had to pay expenses for all the training camps, friendlies and other tournaments the year round it’s not going to be so hard to pay for the championships that occur only once every four years.

  The English FA have improved their maternity offerings since 2011 and Katie was able to return to the international fold for the 2015 World Cup in Canada. But the lack of financial – and cultural – support still makes it hard for mums. Neither defender Casey Stoney, mother of twins; or Katie, who has three young sons, could afford to bring their children out to Canada for the tournament. Had there been more support the rest of the year perhaps they might have been able to.

  Inevitably some will ask: why should an employer pay for kids to be around? It’s not their responsibility. No, but then listen to what Jill Ellis told me: ‘I think it’s great, it shows how much respect the female athletes have over here. Sometimes my daughter will come on trips; I love it, it keeps the dynamic light. It’s actually a bonus to have kids around – the players are professional and they understand the parameters. It’s awesome: you’ve got a high chair over here, you’ve got one running around over there. In the locker room the kids are dancing – you see the players light up.’25 If that approach can help win you a World Cup . . .

  OK, so most of us wouldn’t think of bringing our babies to work, but then again, why not? Journalist Afua Hirsch wrote a fascinating report for the Guardian some years back about mothers working in Ghana. ‘The reality is that most women here have a very simple solution to the challenge of working motherhood. They just strap their babies on to their backs and carry on.’26 At the time Afua had a one-year-old baby and was Ghana correspondent, a role that most of her colleagues thought incompatible with motherhood. But her reflections on the cultural differences were profound. ‘I’ve noticed that African women don’t waste much time feeling guilty about the inevitable imperfect situations that come with being a working mother,’ she wrote, and my God, is that a sentence that will stop many western mothers in their tracks. ‘Instead, motherhood is a celebrated part of prominent women’s credentials.’ Clearly, traditional western society still has a thing or two to learn.

  What does all this mean for ordinary pregnant women? Yes, sportswomen are great role models. They have the potential to change society’s preconceived ideas around what mothers can achieve; they have the potential to change our own ideas about what we as mums can achieve. But fitness-wise they are on another planet! What have they got to do with the rest of us mums who want to exercise during pregnancy, or afterwards? Mums who stagger their way into the office, school or hospital each morning, who have no time, who are tired? A new report says that only 23 per cent of women exercise when pregnant. After a quick survey of mums I know, I’m not surprised. Hardly any of them had been given any meaningful advice from their GP or midwife about how to exercise during pregnancy, or afterwards.

  To be clear, this is not about exercising to lose weight; this is about sensible levels of physical activity that equip mums to stay fit and strong in preparation for the later stages of pregnancy, carrying all that extra weight on their skeleton, and then the marathon that is giving birth. Because while I know many mums struggle with their self-esteem during pregnancy, I have to say I found pregnancy liberating i
n terms of my own body image. After years of worrying what I looked like, I finally felt that my body had a purpose, a function – and it was doing its job brilliantly. When I looked down at my bump, I saw beautiful tightly stretched skin. It was like having my first ever six-pack! A lovely bump, all as it should be. For the first time in my life I was proud of my body. After thirty-two years, it felt like coming home.

  What I wasn’t prepared for was the medical fear factor. For a start, the only aerobic exercise widely recommended by doctors to pregnant women is swimming. Everything else is deemed unsafe because ‘overheating’ in pregnancy can cause damage to your unborn child. I don’t care how brave you are, that sentence is going to frighten the life out of most mothers, particularly those who might have struggled to conceive, or who have suffered miscarriages. Just that one sentence from a doctor and many mums will give up running, sports and exercise classes on the spot. But what is the definition of overheating? Do they mean sweating? How can we keep fit without sweating? It’s making mums more confused than ever. And while swimming is all well and good, and an excellent form of exercise, it’s not very convenient. Many women face access issues, and it’s so time-consuming, especially prohibitive for mums who already have one or more children. And then there’s pool rage, tidal-wave splashing, ignorance of overtaking etiquette, and the general anxiety that so many of us experience when putting our near-naked bodies on display in a swimsuit.

  There is walking, of course, as well as pregnancy yoga from twelve weeks, although it tends to cost a bomb and doesn’t make you sweat. Or, as my friend Kate put it, ‘It’s basically relieving women of £10–£15 to lie on the floor humming for an hour.’ To be fair, I really loved my pregnancy yoga classes and continued right up to the day I gave birth. I’d recommend any pregnant mum to do them. Although there was an emphasis on relaxation, as Kate describes, alongside that were stretches, posture work, body awareness and important conversations about breathing through birth. I also learned the most useful piece of information anyone told me about giving birth: ‘The point where you think you can’t continue, where the pain is at its worst, that’s transition. You’ll think you want to give up, or take drugs, but actually you’re nearly there.’ That tiny nugget of information was of enormous comfort during my daughter’s birth. But the central question of whether or not pregnancy yoga is enough to keep us physically fit through the trimesters, I’m not convinced. And, crucially, neither swimming nor pregnancy yoga seem to be particularly inclusive forms of exercise. When I go swimming, or to a yoga studio, I don’t see a great deal of diversity. What are all the other pregnant mums supposed to be doing?