By Donna Hangaught

So apparently Oklahoma state government advanced a bill requiring women to have the permission of the man who impregnated her in order to have an abortion.

What?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe in abortion as a method of birth control. We, as human beings, need to take proactive measures to prevent unwanted pregnancies. I can take a pill every day. I can take a pill the morning after a mess-up and make myself sick as a dog just to be ‘sure.’ I can get an injection once a month. I can insert a ring into my cervix. I can have an implant inserted into my arm every six months. I can have a plastic IUD surgically placed in my uterus for five years at a time, or a copper one for ten.

I have choices.

Fellas, you wear a condom. That’s about as far as your non-surgical birth control options go. Make sure it isn’t expired, make sure it isn’t damaged, and make sure it fits.

This brings me back to the matter at hand. If I’m responsible for choosing, paying for, and dealing with these birth control methods and their side effects, why in the world should I need someone else’s signature if they don’t work? 

If I got raped and became impregnated, do you think I should go find out if my rapist wants to be a dad before I abort the result of my assault?

If I hook up with a nice guy from the bar and the condom breaks, should I have to go find Mr. Not-Right-Now and have him sign off on me aborting a baby that will alter the rest of my entire life because he might want to be a dad? Does he get that right when he couldn’t even size his condom correctly?

In today’s society, where He is praised for His sexual conquests and She is demoralized for Hers, should I have to remain abstinent for fear of pregnancy, while men can fornicate as they please?

So, for real now, I alternated pregnancies and miscarriages for a few years there and ended up with three beautiful children. If I get pregnant again, there’s a good chance the whole thing could go wrong. Should my husband have to come with me to the doctor and sign a waiver if that should happen? Or should my own word be enough to decide that the risk isn’t worth taking?

Why is it anyone else’s decision?

I thought longer and harder about the subject as I was driving one very expensive child to dance, driving another very expensive child to youth orchestra, going to a seminar on how to prepare your child for college (she’s only in the seventh grade) and my husband was at home making dinner for our large, expensive family.

I got pregnant with my oldest daughter during my last semester in college. I could have aborted her and gone about my life. Even if I had started having kids just six months later, everything would have been easier.

I, as me, couldn’t have lived with that decision, and that is the best decision that I’ve ever made. I adore my family, through the good times and the bad, and I wouldn’t want my life to have played out any other way.

But in another dimension somewhere, maybe “parallel universe me” did go the other route. She had an abortion, went to grad school, got married before she had kids, bought a cute, affordable little house somewhere, and maybe she’s happy. It doesn’t sound like a terrible life to me. Not one bit.

The point is, that was my choice.

My now-husband could have left if he wanted to, bodily intact, but his choice was to stay.

That being said, he didn’t have to put off his education to have a child. I did. I chose that.

He wasn’t the one who went on thirty-five job interviews and didn’t get one call back because he was obviously pregnant. I did. I chose to be five months pregnant when I graduated from college. There would obviously be challenges.

He wasn’t the one who made milk with his breasts in the middle of the night to feed the babies. I was the one heating the mastitis in my boob at 3 a.m. I chose to breastfeed the kids until my body stopped making milk.

He didn’t have to sit alone in a car outside of a church to feed his baby. I chose to go somewhere with my infant because people didn’t want me whipping out my tits for my screaming child. This is our society. As natural as it may be, nobody wants to see it.

He didn’t have to “pump and dump” to be able to go have a few drinks with his friends. I was the one trying to maintain my relationship with the outside world while still maintaining my milk supply. (Just in case you weren’t aware, most people without kids don’t want to hear you talk about your babies. Good luck finding something else to give a shit about for conversation’s sake…)

He isn’t the one with scars on his abdomen from c-sections. I was the one who went into early labor with our second child after three months of mandatory bed rest. I was the one who had to drink upwards of three gallons of water a day trying to replace lost amniotic fluid.

I was the one who had to schedule the birth of our son because vaginal birth after c-section was too risky for my health.

My health.

He wasn’t the one who suffered from postpartum depression. I was the one who had the most chemical mindfuck you could possibly imagine. I was the one who had to be medicated to feel like a human being again.

My amazing husband was there to support me for every minute of this crazy ride through parenthood. For that I am eternally grateful. He is an amazing man and a phenomenal father, but pregnancy didn’t happen to his body.

Not everyone has what I have.

So boys, you can adore the kids. You can care about them, pay for them, cook them dinner and love them with all of your heart, but you do not have to make them with your body.

So why the hell should I need you to sign a paper saying that I don’t?

My uterus. My choice.