When Did Birth Become Less Important Than Football?

The outcry over footballer Jérémy Doku choosing to leave the Club World Cup for the birth of his child has generated a surprisingly revealing debate. Much of the controversy centred on comments made by French presenter France Pierron, who reportedly described childbirth as “disgusting” and questioned why a player would prioritise being present for the birth over a once-in-a-lifetime sporting opportunity.

The reaction was swift, but what struck me wasn’t simply the comments themselves. It was what they revealed about some of the assumptions we still hold about birth, women’s bodies and the role fathers play in family life.

Because there is something revealing about the things society chooses to call disgusting.

Violence rarely makes the list. We consume it daily through news bulletins, films, television dramas and social media feeds. We watch people being shot, stabbed, humiliated and brutalised without much concern for our sensibilities. Yet mention childbirth, the process through which every single human being enters the world, and suddenly people start describing it as revolting, unpleasant or disgusting.

It is a curious contradiction.

Childbirth is many things. It is painful. It is messy. It is exhausting. It can be frightening. It can be traumatic. It can also be awe-inspiring, transformative and deeply moving. What it is not is disgusting.

The word itself deserves scrutiny because it tells us something about how we continue to view women’s bodies.

After all, we rarely describe natural biological processes associated with men in these terms. Yet when it comes to women’s bodies, disgust seems to arrive remarkably quickly. Menstruation suffers the same fate. Girls learn from a young age to hide sanitary products up their sleeves on the way to the toilet as though they are transporting state secrets. Entire industries exist to ensure periods remain invisible, odourless and discreet. The message is subtle but relentless: if it happens to women, it should be hidden.

It is an odd lesson to teach half the population.

The irony, of course, is that childbirth is perhaps the most universally shared human experience imaginable. Every politician, athlete, scientist, celebrity and billionaire arrived here in exactly the same way. The most powerful people on earth entered the world covered in blood, bodily fluids and vulnerability. No exceptions.

Yet somehow we have managed to celebrate the outcome while stigmatising the process.

We adore babies. We throw baby showers, post birth announcements and speak reverently about family values. But the physical reality of how human beings arrive here remains something many people would rather not think about.

Perhaps that says less about birth and more about our discomfort with women’s embodied experiences.

Equally revealing was the suggestion that fathers are somehow unnecessary during labour because a midwife can provide the support that is needed.

This feels less controversial than antiquated.

It assumes that support only counts when it is visible. If someone is not physically delivering the baby, administering medication or performing a clinical task, then they must not be contributing very much. But childbirth is not simply a physical event. It is an emotional and neurological one too.

When I gave birth to both my boys, I had my mother and my husband beside me. My mother brought something invaluable: experience. Having given birth six times herself, she knew the terrain. She understood what was happening when I didn’t. She offered reassurance that could only come from someone who had walked that path before. My husband brought something equally important but entirely different.

He wasn’t there because he had specialist medical knowledge. He wasn’t monitoring contractions or advising healthcare professionals. He was there because he was the person I trusted most in the world. In one of the most physically demanding and emotionally vulnerable moments of my life, his presence made me feel safe.

We often underestimate the role loved ones play in regulating our nervous systems. Feeling safe is not some sentimental luxury during labour. It matters. A familiar voice, a reassuring touch, someone who knows your fears, your strengths and your breaking points can help create the emotional conditions that allow a woman to navigate birth.

A midwife plays a crucial role, but it is a different role. A midwife provides professional support, clinical expertise and medical care. A partner provides emotional support, connection and familiarity. These are not competing functions. They are complementary ones. Suggesting that a midwife can replace a partner during labour is rather like suggesting that because someone has a GP, they no longer need family.

Most of us instinctively understand that different forms of support serve different purposes. Perhaps what unsettles some people is not that fathers want to be present. It is that an increasing number of fathers no longer see themselves as optional extras in family life.

For generations, men were expected to pace hospital corridors, wait by telephones or return to work almost immediately. Birth was treated as something that happened to their wives rather than something they participated in. Many fathers today want something different.

They want to be present. Not because they are medically necessary, but because they understand that parenthood begins long before the first nappy change. They recognise that showing up matters.

Surely that is progress.

What sits beneath all of this, however, is a broader question about what society values. One of the more striking aspects of the debate was the suggestion that a father should prioritise a major sporting event over the birth of his child because a World Cup is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Perhaps.

But so is the birth of your child. Every child is born exactly once. There are no second chances. No replay. No highlights package. No opportunity to catch the next one instead. That exact moment, when a particular human being enters the world, will never happen again.

Imagine if someone could tell us in advance that the child being born would grow up to become the next Einstein, discover a cure for cancer or transform the world in some extraordinary way. Would anyone question the importance of being present at their birth? Of course not.

The truth is that we assign prestige to events differently. A World Cup comes with television cameras, medals and public recognition. A birth happens behind closed doors, often witnessed only by a handful of exhausted people. One is publicly celebrated. The other is privately experienced. Yet perhaps that distinction reveals something uncomfortable about our priorities.

We live in a culture that often values achievement over relationships, public success over private responsibility and spectacle over significance. We understand why someone would miss a family milestone for a career opportunity. We are less comfortable asking whether some moments in life transcend career altogether.

The birth of a child feels like one of those moments. Because beneath the debates about football, fathers and childbirth lies a larger contradiction. We praise involved fathers but question why they would want to attend the birth. We celebrate babies while stigmatising the process that brings them into the world.

We speak endlessly about the importance of family while treating one of family life’s most profound moments as secondary to more publicly visible achievements. Which brings us back to the question at the heart of this debate.

When did birth become less important than football?

And perhaps more importantly, what does it say about us that so many people think that is a perfectly reasonable question to ask?

 

 

 

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