Eat. Sweat. Play

by Anna Kessel

  Enter Ready Steady Mums, the brainchild of mum to three small boys Katy Tuncer, and a scheme she has launched in partnership with the Institute of Health Visitors (IHV) to empower mums to get out and exercise. It’s true, health visitors don’t always have the best reputation with mums: I’ll never forget the one who suggested I shave my daughter’s hair off at three weeks so that she could have ‘nicer hair when she grows up’. I’ve heard all sorts of moans about contradictory and confusing advice delivered by stern and unapproachable women for whom you instantly regret ever making a cup of tea. But I’m a bona fide cheerleader for Katy’s initiative because it’s all about bringing mothers together to exercise on their own terms – and using the national institution of health visitors to facilitate it. Currently there are around fifty mum-led groups across the country, but Katy would like to see one set up for each children’s centre in the UK – about 3,000. Katy recalls a research paper that found exercise to be the most effective way to support women with mild to moderate postnatal depression, better than antidepressants, and this tallies with RSM’s biggest reported benefit of the scheme – increased self-esteem.

  ‘The emotional side is never the ingoing motivation, though,’ says Katy of why women sign up to Ready Steady Mums. ‘Those tend to be losing the baby weight, and – sadly – mums worrying about being a negative role model to their children, worried about embarrassing their kids by being “fat”. Unfortunately we just aren’t used to seeing postnatal bodies in the mainstream media, and so even women who felt happy and confident during their pregnancy can feel very differently after they’ve given birth.’ That’s something we can all relate to. While it is customary to tell women how great they look in pregnancy, we stop giving them compliments the minute the baby pops out. Katy sends me a link to a project by US photographer Jade Beall, who captured seventy postnatal mums for A Beautiful Body Project. The images are extraordinary, and moving. Dimpled stomachs, stretch marks, rounded bodies, breastfeeding boobs. And their lovely children clinging on to them. I stare and stare in amazement. I have never seen women’s postnatal bodies made public in this way before. It is a revelation.

  What all of these burgeoning initiatives have in common is a set-up where mums can bring their children along with them to exercise, instead of needing to search out crèche facilities or childcare. For me, it is those set-ups that are the most effective, because how many women have the luxury of accessing childcare just so they can exercise? As a new mum I started with buggyfit in the park, which was genius until my daughter reached seven months and decided she hated sitting in a buggy, and, eventually, family fitness at my local Salvation Army branch.

  By then Ella was two and learning to socialize. She also wanted to walk more, which meant less buggy time, and less exercise for me. Meanwhile my breastfeeding weight loss had worn off, and I’d developed a tea and cake habit that would make a nutritionist weep. I was short on time and cash, and had run out of childcare favours. Taking Ella to exercise with me at a community centre that charged just £2.50 for an hour was life-changing. It also proved to be a special experience that we could enjoy together. On the good days she would hold my hand and mimic my moves, jogging on the spot, doing star jumps and aerobics grapevines, or sticking her bottom in the air in a comical but cute attempt to do the plank. On the bad days she’d whimper and stretch up her arms for me to cuddle her. I’d star jump with her straddled around my front, laughing at the exertion, and each time peeling her off me and attempting to settle her in the corner with toys and the other children. While I felt the familiar buzz of endorphins, sweat dripping down my temples, my body getting fitter and stronger, she learned how to negotiate toy disputes and foster friendships, exchanging raisins and breadsticks. I loved that time together; it was precious for us and I felt proud as my daughter talked about us doing ‘our exercises’ and would come home to demonstrate to her dad what we’d been up to. From an early stage in our lives, I felt, we were – both of us – already on the right path to an active lifestyle. At the end of the session volunteers kindly vacuumed up the breadstick crumbs and squashed raisins, and put away the toys. I felt evangelical about the scheme; I wanted every community centre in the country to have one just like it.

  Because while some mums are comfortable, and can afford, to leave their kids at a crèche in the gym, many more will struggle with the concept. Whether their children are hard to settle with strangers or are going through periods of separation anxiety, or whether the mothers just dread being hauled out of the gym/pool/steam room to soothe their child for the umpteenth time that hour, or simply cannot afford the monthly membership fees for a child-friendly gym, a crèche is not the catch-all solution for everyone.

  And when we look to elite athlete mums it is interesting how they seem to have reached the same conclusion. Shelley Rudman, a former skeleton world champion, takes her daughters with her on training camps and homeschools her eldest in-between downhill runs on the ice; eleven times gold-medal-winning Paralympic cyclist Sarah Storey breastfed her daughter Louisa through her return to training, and well into toddlerhood. Like Jessica Ennis-Hill, who often brought Reggie with her or trained at home in a makeshift gym after putting him to bed each night, Sarah always found a way for her daughter to be included in her sessions, whether that was in a Moses basket next to the exercise bike (the whirring noise of the wheels soothing her to sleep), strapped to her torso on a hike across the hillsides, or in the car with husband Barney during her road training sessions. The key to a lot of these set-ups is support. Jess’s example speaks volumes. In Toni Minichiello she had a coach who became a parent shortly before she did, and who felt comfortable having a baby around. He understood that her life had changed, that she wouldn’t choose between a gold medal and her child, as one ridiculous newspaper headline put it, and that she needed to include Reggie in her day. Crucially, he also understood that everything about her life had changed – from having a new priority in Reggie, to her body facing new and unknown challenges. And he provided the setting to allow her to work quietly through those challenges and find the solutions to regain her strength and sporting prowess. That approach is exemplary. The fact that it paid off in the form of a world championship gold medal shows just how important it is for mums to be supported in their new lifestyle so they can continue to achieve their goals – whether those are world-class sporting performances, or just getting out for a swim with friends.

  The more I investigated, the more I discovered that ordinary mums were creating their own mum- and child-friendly exercise environments in their own areas. So, with my daughter in tow, kitted out in exercise gear, I jumped on a train to South London to see my friend and ex Muay Thai fighter Simone Harvey, who runs a boxing class for mums and their children.

  Deep in the underbelly of Dulwich Hamlet’s football stadium, borrowing the training space used by prize-winning professional boxer Leon McKenzie, a group of women perch on benches outside the men’s urinals and tell me their stories. The boxing ring is strewn with toys, while toddlers chat and play and a baby casually chews on a sweaty hand wrap. The women at the class have never met me before, and yet they are so keen to share their stories, to open up about how this class has changed their lives. There’s Kate (who I mentioned in the introduction to this book), thirty-nine with two young sons, who had never previously exercised. But two babies later, ‘and a hell of a lot of biscuits’, her body had changed, and her new form felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. She didn’t like the idea of boxing, but with two kids in tow and childcare to manage, Simone’s classes were the only local exercise option to which she could bring her children. ‘The first session I was so unfit I only managed to get through the warm-up,’ she laughs now. But she was surprised by how quickly she progressed, and soon her husband would come home to find her sparring with Simone in the back garden. Sport and exercise had always been a no-go area for Kate, but in learning to love them, other opportunities began to open in the rest of her life. ‘All of a sudden I could d
o something that I’d always thought was “off limits”,’ she reflects. ‘It’s probably no coincidence that I went on to completely rethink my career, taking up an archaeology course at university, something that I’d wanted to do my whole life but had always been discouraged from pursuing. My dad had said it wasn’t a suitable job for women.’ Kate is now studying for an MSc in Palaeolithic archaeology.

  Anna, thirty-six, with two children, has a similar story. Originally a solicitor, she retrained as a video artist. Before attending Simone’s classes she’d always hated sport, though not exercise, and particularly the idea of anything to do with boxing. ‘People kept posting on the parents’ forum about a local boxing class. I thought, “How hilarious, I’m never going to do that!”’ Whenever her husband watched boxing on the TV Anna would leave the room; she says it made her feel physically sick. But after five years of pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, childcare, she felt ready for a different physical challenge – importantly, one that could sit alongside motherhood. ‘I wanted to re-engage with my own physicality, for myself. It’s not that I needed “me time”, or something different to the kids. But my children had reached an age where my body wasn’t being used solely for them anymore. I wanted to explore how my body could be enjoyed in a different way.’ Anna took up running and started a dance class, but the boxing had a unique attraction to it – on at the right time for the kids’ routines, and best of all she could bring her youngest with her. ‘I know people say you can use a crèche at a gym, but that’s never appealed to me. I really want to know who’s looking after my children.’

  When Anna tells me she is pregnant with her third child I can’t help feeling a bit shocked. I’ve just done several rounds punching pads, and then holding pads for another woman to punch at me. My doctor’s warning haunts me – is it really safe to be pregnant in a boxing gym? Anna explains. ‘I wouldn’t walk into any old boxing gym and let them punch at me, but this is a special environment, just for mums, where everyone’s looking after one another, and we’ve all been through the same thing. The precaution I take is going to a class where it’s run by a mum, for mums. I wouldn’t tell every mother to run out and join a boxing class – I don’t want to pile pressure on anyone to be active – but for me personally it is important to be fit and strong to carry this child, and to be healthy when I give birth.’ Through the drills Anna is careful to hold her pad away from her body, rather than close to her abdomen, so that her sparring partner is not punching directly at her. The atmosphere is supportive and encouraging, Simone keeps a watchful eye and everyone is alert to the babies crawling on the floor, toddlers waddling around the gym and mothers breastfeeding in the corner.

  Isobel, twenty-seven, an interiors and murals specialist with two young sons, drives an hour into London each week just to attend the class. Her kids love it, knocking about the boxing ring with the other toddlers and a sea of toys, and she loves the can-do atmosphere of mums sweating it out in a gritty gym. ‘I love doing a form of exercise that makes you think,’ she says. ‘I do feel like my mind is rotting a little bit with children; as much as I try and engage them with things, it’s not as intellectually stimulating. Learning new things is good for my brain.’ As Simone shouts out each new pads routine – CROSS, LEFT HOOK, UPPER CUT, LEFT HOOK, CROSS! – I can see what she means about having to stay alert.

  When Isobel had her first son she was twenty-four years old, and the youngest mum in her NCT class. ‘I was at university studying at the time. I finished my degree on the Friday and had Stanley on the Monday. I was the first of my friends to have kids.’ Despite her age, after two large babies, she felt Mother Nature had given her an unfair deal. ‘I seemed to end up with the worst body and scars out of all of them. I’ve got horrendous stretch marks and sagging skin all over my stomach and my boobs. I’m fitter and skinnier than I’ve ever been but I still have a blimmin’ turkey stomach hanging off me, honestly, it’s dreadful, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I didn’t realize I was that vain but pregnancy really took its toll on my body, it had an effect far greater than just physically.’ To me Isobel looks amazing. She’s tall and strong with well-defined shoulders; she looks like an athlete. And she’s got the coolest bleached crew cut I think I’ve ever seen on a mum. Despite her body hang-ups, it’s clear just how much she gets from exercising. She runs several times a week. ‘It’s the only time I get twenty minutes away from the kids,’ she laughs. ‘I know that sounds awful! But it feels like a relief, a place to clear to my mind.’

  Every mother I know says that about exercise. It’s a space for yourself. A very modern room of one’s own, in a disconnected virtual age where we need to connect to our bodies more than ever. But creating that space can seem impossible. Whether it’s work, domestic chores, bedtimes, school pickups or trying to maintain a social life, mothers are constantly negotiating their schedules, with partners, childcare providers, employers. Negotiating yet another element – exercise – can seem the very last straw. We know that if only we would get out there and do it we would feel great, but still it languishes, the item at the very bottom of the list, down there with tax returns and cleaning the skirting boards. When I think about the men I know in my life, they don’t seem to have this problem. They announce, ‘I’m going to the gym,’ or ‘I’m going to play football.’ It’s not a point of negotiation, unless there’s a specific practical reason why they can’t go. This is a great template, mothers! Exercise shouldn’t be a point of negotiation, it’s your health, your sanity, your time and space. You can do it with friends as part of socializing, or you can do it on your own. And I hope you will also be able to do it with your kids. The more avenues we can offer women to be physically active, the better.

  The problem is that it’s so easy to fall off the wagon when you’ve got children. You do buggyfit, and then they decide they hate their buggy. You go to aerobics, and they get separation anxiety. You do classes together on a weekday morning, and then your child starts nursery.

  When I fell pregnant for the second time I had pretty much stopped exercising. Everything had fallen by the wayside, and the new routine of pickups and drop-offs at nursery and attempting to squeeze a career in between filled my days. I knew this wasn’t a good state of affairs, but I couldn’t figure out how to change things. My husband bought me a beautiful pair of deep-purple running shoes and a luxury sports bra, but the trainers sat in the hallway for several months and the sports bra remained neatly folded in its pretty box.

  I thought back to my first pregnancy and how I used to go running through the park, but things were different this time around. I already had a child to look after, and three part-time jobs to squeeze into three and a half days a week. And I felt so sick; when my daughter had her bath I lay on my side on the hallway landing fighting the nausea.

  Twelve weeks arrived. But as the date of our first scan drew closer, something unexpected happened. A tiny spot of blood appeared. It was unremarkable, really, so miniscule I could easily have missed it. But it was definitely pink, definitely blood.

  I ignored it. The next day there was a bigger drop. And then another. On the third day there was more still. I called the NHS helpline; they said to go to A & E, but that in all likelihood it was nothing. Light bleeding is very common in early pregnancy and usually nothing to worry about. My husband flew to Portugal; I told him everything would be fine.

  The following morning something was definitely wrong. I started to cry, and my daughter climbed into my lap. ‘I just need to check everything’s OK with the baby,’ I told her, trying to sound calm. ‘We’ll go to hospital, just to make sure.’ In A & E we sat on cold grey chairs, with my parents. My dad bought crisps and grapes for the wait. I hoped no one with scary-looking injuries would walk into reception and frighten my daughter.

  There are layers to an accident and emergency admission. You have to patiently go through them, retelling your story at each point, before you get to the person who can actually diagnose what is happening to your body. Un
til that happens, there is nothing to do but wait. Eventually my daughter got bored. I’d never been so pleased to hear her say those words. I packed her off to the park with my dad, and hunkered down in my chair.

  Two hours later my mum and I finally reached the emergency gynaecological unit. The doctor scanned my belly, twisting and prodding with the probe, pulling together a picture on a screen that I could not see. Suddenly she stopped. ‘I’m going to need to do an internal scan, the baby looks very small,’ she said. ‘Is that your mum in the waiting area?’ I nodded. ‘I think she’d better come in.’

  Sitting beside me in the half-light, my mum held my hand. The tears began to flow. Would my baby be OK? There were only two possible answers: yes, and no. Inside my head I battled between the extremes. Should I steel myself for the worst? Or hope for the best?

  It felt like a long time, lying in that semi-darkness, waiting to hear. Eventually the doctor removed the probe, hung it up in its socket, and folded her hands in her lap. She turned her face towards me, with solemn lips. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ she said. The baby had stopped growing. It was very small. ‘No one knows why these things happen. You can take a moment to get dressed, and then we will need to talk about how to remove it.’

  You cannot imagine how fast that transition is, between hearing that your baby is dead, and being told you must now decide how to get rid of it. I got dressed and we sat in chairs, holding leaflets, listening, trying to understand. There are five options: tablets at home, tablets at hospital, an operation under general anaesthetic, an operation under local anaesthetic. Or you can leave it to Mother Nature to do the job for you, but effectively that means walking around with a dead foetus inside your womb for an unquantifiable length of time.