Why a second child spells ruin

There's a mother gap as well as a gender gap at work. One child is bad enough; another could rob you

Just what is it with this country and children? How do we manage to combine an attitude of saccharine sentimentality about the sanctity of the home with the most punitive employment practices for anyone who dares to let home interfere with work? Look at all the fuss about David Beckham missing a training session to be with his ill baby. If you are reading this, David, you might like to know that my husband was also at home on Monday afternoon looking after a sick child. Of course, no one cared much in our case, which may be something to do with the pay differentials between soccer stars and academics. But the important point is this: Beckham got a bollocking by the boss and a dressing-down by the British press, when what he deserved was a round of applause for putting his family first.

Despite 25 years of so-called equal opportunities, raising families is still widely regarded as women's work, and still comes with huge costs attached. A report from the Women's Unit published on 21 February showed that women not only lose out financially for being women, but are additionally penalised for being mothers. There is both a gender gap and a mother gap.

Modelling women's incomes over a lifetime, the report calculated that a mid-skill woman (with qualifications at GCSE level) earns £241,000 less over her lifetime than her male counterpart. She earns £36,000 more than a woman of exactly the same skill-level, but with a child.

The long-term financial costs of having a second child are even greater. The Women's Unit calculates that a high-skill woman loses £19,000 by having a second child, a mid-skill woman, £140,000, and a low-skill woman £269,000, or a staggering 58 per cent of her lifetime earnings. And that's without accounting for expenditure on clothing, toys, food and childcare.

Over the course of her lifetime, a low-skill woman with two children will earn around £500,000 less than her low-skill husband. To put it another way, his lifetime earnings will be nearly double hers. At the other end of the scale, a high-skill mother of two earns £160,000 (or 14 per cent) less than her husband.

Poor, uneducated women are hit hardest by motherhood, because they are the ones least likely to remain in any kind of paid work, and to have the lowest rates of pay when they are earning. But for mid-skill women who return to part-time work after just two years, the penalties of mothering are also very high. As Katherine Rake, lecturer in social policy at the LSE and editor of this report, points out: "Going part-time involves downshifting in the pay-scale. Part-time workers are being paid less now than in the 1980s. It's not just a case of mothers working fewer hours; they're also being paid less than other part-time workers for the hours they do work."

Is it pure coincidence that as part-time work has become increasingly attractive to women seeking to combine unpaid mothering and paid work, it should have become increasingly poorly paid? Is it not strangely reminiscent of what happened with rates of pay in social work and teaching as they became feminised occupations?

The big success story of late-20th century feminism was that increasing numbers of women were returning to work after becoming mothers; by the end of the century, motherhood for most women had stopped looking like a career choice, and had become one of several things that a woman might do with her time and energy. Eighty per cent of women now carry on working in some form or other after the birth of their first child, and yet this figure is not sustained for very long after the birth of their second. With two children, traditional patterns quickly reassert themselves for all but the most highly skilled women, and the majority of mothers drop down to part-time work after having their second child, or stop work altogether. Which begins to look less like progress and more like the usual roadworks.

This "second-child effect" has received relatively little attention from social scientists until very recently, but it is fast emerging as an important new trend in women's employment patterns.

An on-going study by psychologists at the University of Kent, looking at how women's attitudes to work change after they become mothers, found a marked shift between the first and second child. "The majority of women intend to go back to work after their first child is born," explains Diane Houston, "and they are carrying out that intention, even if their views and feelings about work change once the baby actually arrives. But the second child seems to precipitate a big change in a woman's attitude to work, and crucially in her intentions. In terms of the choices women make about working outside the home, the second child is making a real difference even before it's born."

Childcare costs are obviously a major factor in many women's decision-making. Often, paying someone else to look after your children while you work stops making financial sense with two.

Twenty years ago, women looked pretty much like each other in terms of employment patterns and mothering; today, they are becoming increasingly polarised along class and education lines into work-rich/child-poor on the one hand, and child-rich/work-poor on the other. This is not a sign of healthy diversification, but rather an indication of how limited the options are to individual women wherever they fall on the employment spectrum.

Despite enormous changes in the past two decades in the patterns of women's working lives, the workplace revolution still shimmers on the horizon, as infuriatingly distant as ever. Eighty per cent of mothers may be in paid employment, but bearing children actually has a worse effect on women's earnings now than 15 years ago.

The "choices" a woman makes about whether and how much to work after having children are informed by a complex web of factors, including her financial situation, her marital status, her age, class, education, and her partner's occupation (and by less obvious factors too, such as how well the children sleep at night). Inflexible, long hours and low pay still stand between women with small children and paid work.

Women alone cannot make the workplace into a fairer place. What most women want is more flexibility in the workplace, and more commitment from government to encourage and enforce this. What would help women and men, (not to mention children and families) is a concerted challenge to the long-hours culture; a more positive attitude from employers towards flexible and part-time working; more recognition of a father's needs; more support for parenting as a responsibility shared equally by fathers and mothers; and the recognition of children as a collective responsibility, rather than a private obligation.

Rebecca Abrams is the author of "Mother of Two: how your second child changes your life all over again", to be published next year

This article first appeared in the 28 February 2000 issue of the New Statesman, Why the party still needs its soul

Biteback and James Wharton
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“It was the most traumatic chapter of my life”: ex-soldier James Wharton on his chemsex addiction

One of the British Army’s first openly gay soldiers reveals how he became trapped in a weekend world of drug and sex parties.

“Five days disappeared.” James Wharton, a 30-year-old former soldier, recalls returning to his flat in south London at 11pm on a Sunday night in early March. He hadn’t eaten or slept since Wednesday. In the five intervening days, he had visited numerous different apartments, checked in and out of a hotel room, partied with dozens of people, had sex, and smoked crystal meth “religiously”.

One man he met during this five-day blur had been doing the same for double the time. “He won’t have been exaggerating,” Wharton tells me now. “He looked like he’d been up for ten days.”

On Monday, Wharton went straight to his GP. He had suffered a “massive relapse” while recovering from his addiction to chemsex: group sex parties enhanced by drugs.

“Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army term”

I meet Wharton on a very different Monday morning six months after that lost long weekend. Sipping a flat white in a sleek café workspace in Holborn, he’s a stroll away from his office in the city, where he works as a PR. He left the Army in 2013 after ten years, having left school and home at 16.


Wharton left school at 16 to join the Army. Photo: Biteback

With his stubble, white t-shirt and tortoise shell glasses, he now looks like any other young media professional. But he’s surfacing from two years in the chemsex world, where he disappeared to every weekend – sometimes for 72 hours straight.

Back then, this time on a Monday would have been “like a double-decker bus smashing through” his life – and that’s if he made it into work at all. Sometimes he’d still be partying into the early hours of a Tuesday morning. The drugs allow your body to go without sleep. “Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army expression,” Wharton says, wryly.


Wharton now works as a PR in London. Photo: James Wharton

Mainly experienced by gay and bisexual men, chemsex commonly involves snorting the stimulant mephodrone, taking “shots” (the euphoric drug GBL mixed with a soft drink), and smoking the amphetamine crystal meth.

These drugs make you “HnH” (high and horny) – a shorthand on dating apps that facilitate the scene. Ironically, they also inhibit erections, so Viagra is added to the mix. No one, sighs Wharton, orgasms. He describes it as a soulless and mechanical process. “Can you imagine having sex with somebody and then catching them texting at the same time?”

“This is the real consequence of Section 28”

Approximately 3,000 men who go to Soho’s 56 Dean Street sexual health clinic each month are using “chems”, though it’s hard to quantify how many people regularly have chemsex in the UK. Chemsex environments can be fun and controlled; they can also be unsafe and highly addictive.

Participants congregate in each other’s flats, chat, chill out, have sex and top up their drugs. GBL can only be taken in tiny doses without being fatal, so revellers set timers on their phones to space out the shots.

GBL is known as “the date rape drug”; it looks like water, and a small amount can wipe your memory. Like some of his peers, Wharton was raped while passed out from the drug. He had been asleep for six or so hours, and woke up to someone having sex with him. “That was the worst point, without a doubt – rock bottom,” he tells me. “[But] it didn’t stop me from returning to those activities again.”

There is a chemsex-related death every 12 days in London from usually accidental GBL overdoses; a problem that Wharton compares to the AIDS epidemic in a book he’s written about his experiences, Something for the Weekend.


Wharton has written a book about his experiences. Photo: Biteback

Wharton’s first encounter with the drug, at a gathering he was taken to by a date a couple of years ago, had him hooked.

“I loved it and I wanted more immediately,” he recalls. From then on, he would take it every weekend, and found doctors, teachers, lawyers, parliamentary researchers, journalists and city workers all doing the same thing. He describes regular participants as the “London gay elite”.

“Chemsex was the most traumatic chapter of my life” 

Topics of conversation “bounce from things like Lady Gaga’s current single to Donald Trump”, Wharton boggles. “You’d see people talking about the general election, to why is Britney Spears the worst diva of them all?”

Eventually, he found himself addicted to the whole chemsex culture. “It’s not one single person, it’s not one single drug, it’s just all of it,” he says.



Wharton was in the Household Cavalry alongside Prince Harry. Photos: Biteback and James Wharton

Wharton feels the stigma attached to chemsex is stopping people practising it safely, or being able to stop. He’s found a support network through gay community-led advice services, drop-ins and workshops. Not everyone has that access, or feels confident coming forward.

“This is the real consequence of Section 28,” says Wharton, who left school in 2003, the year this legislation against “promoting” homosexuality was repealed. “Who teaches gay men how to have sex? Because the birds and the bees chat your mum gives you is wholly irrelevant.”


Wharton was the first openly gay soldier to appear in the military in-house magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

Wharton only learned that condoms are needed in gay sex when he first went to a gay bar at 18. He was brought up in Wrexham, north Wales, by working-class parents, and described himself as a “somewhat geeky gay” prior to his chemsex days.

After four years together, he and his long-term partner had a civil partnership in 2010; they lived in a little cottage in Windsor with two dogs. Their break-up in 2014 launched him into London life as a single man.

As an openly gay soldier, Wharton was also an Army poster boy; he appeared in his uniform on the cover of gay magazine Attitude. He served in the Household Cavalry with Prince Harry, who once defended him from homophobic abuse, and spent seven months in Iraq.


In 2012, Wharton appeared with his then civil partner in Attitude magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

A large Union Jack shield tattoo covering his left bicep pokes out from his t-shirt – a physical reminder of his time at war on his now much leaner frame. He had it done the day he returned from Iraq.

Yet even including war, Wharton calls chemsex “the most traumatic chapter” of his life. “Iraq was absolutely Ronseal, it did exactly what it said on the tin,” he says. “It was going to be a bit shit, and then I was coming home. But with chemsex, you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

“When I did my divorce, I had support around me. When I did the Army, I had a lot of support. Chemsex was like a million miles an hour for 47 hours, then on the 48th hour it was me on my own, in the back of an Uber, thinking where did it all go wrong? And that’s traumatic.”

Something for the Weekend: Life in the Chemsex Underworld by James Wharton is published by Biteback.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 February 2000 issue of the New Statesman, Why the party still needs its soul