As governor, I’ll always make investing in our Texas children my first priority. #TeamWendy— Wendy Davis (@WendyDavisTexas) December 4, 2013
By ensuring they can be aborted at any stage of pregnancy.
Under the proposed law, if a woman wants insurance to cover abortion, she'll have to anticipate the need well in advance and purchase a separate rider to cover the procedure.
Michigan politicians have invoked this rarely-used legislative maneuver only five times in its history -- and three of those times it has been used to attack women's access to health care.
Insurance coverage of abortion is not a partisan issue -- it is a health issue.
Last December, the Michigan Section of the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists opposed an abortion insurance ban and "any legislation that seeks to restrict access to the legitimate medical services necessary to preserve and protect the reproductive health and well being of the women of Michigan."
Why would the legislature interfere with how private parties contract to cover a safe, legal and constitutionally protected medical procedure?
The medical community objects to the abortion insurance ban.
Republican Party leaders have vetoed it in the past and polls show that only 36 percent of Michigan voters support the provision.So two Republican governors vetoed it (compared to the dozens who voted for it) and one poorly-worded poll with 36% support on an issue that large sections of the public don't understand and that means what exactly?
Legislators should take this opportunity to stop injecting themselves into private health decisions and let Michigan voters decide what kind of insurance coverage is best for them and their families.Legislators injecting themselves into private health decisions is the essence of Obamacare. Again, this is coming from someone whose organization supports Obamacare and its various rules which require certain coverages. If Lamerand actually gave a shit about letting Michiganders decide their insurance coverage, she would be opposed to Obamacare.
For as long as anyone can remember, teachers at Brooklet Elementary School [in Brooklet, Georgia] have posted Christmas cards in the hallways outside their classrooms – until Monday.This of course is why moonbat educrats hate Christmas. All remnants of Christianity must be eradicated so that children can grow up believing that the one true god is the liberal god, Bureaucratic Coercion. The War on Christmas is actually only an ongoing battle in the War on Christianity.
When boys and girls returned from Thanksgiving break, they discovered that their teachers’ Christmas cards had been removed – under orders from the Georgia school’s administration.
Robb Kicklighter’s wife is a third grade teacher at the school. He said many teachers are disgruntled by the school’s decision to confiscate the Christmas cards.
“They took down the cards so the kids can’t see them,” he told me. “Some of the cards had the word ‘Christmas’ and some had Nativity scenes.”
“I put American flags in each cell and we listen to the Star-Spangled Banner each day. We also play God Bless America.” He also said his inmates suffer strict consequences if they deface or destroy the American flag in their cells. He stated: “If they damage the flag, they go on a bread and water diet. We have about ten inmates who had to eat bread and water today.”Sheriff Joe added: “I’m sure any effort to house veterans separately from the others will get the ACLU [American Civil Liberties Union] after me again, but these guys fought for our country and I want to do something for them.”
Another effort Sheriff Joe has in mind will likely upset his detractors even more; namely, Arpaio intends to begin separating U.S. military veterans from other inmates. “These guys served our country,” he explained. “I want them to have special training, job programs, I want to have a program that helps them get jobs after they serve their time,” he said.
1 of the nurses at my birth had a rude ass additude & rolled her eyes at me. IN THE DELIVERY ROOM #FeminismIsForTeenMomsToo— Teen Mom NYC (@GloriaMalone) December 3, 2013
One of the worst things I've ever done was sell my pregnancy piss to a girl so she could get abortion money out of her ex.— Jose. Brittany. (@LoveDove1901) December 3, 2013
Eighteen months after the birth of my first, the wand turned positive once again, the delft-blue lines unmistakable in their message. Actually, I'd known before the test. I had the tell-tale signs; the loginess, my sense of scent enhanced, so barbecue sauce, fresh snow, hot coffee and catsup were broken down into their component parts: tang and iron, fruit and dirt.
I took the test at Pizzeria Uno, where I'd gone with my girl after an all-too-common spat with my husband. What the spat was about, I don't recall; money maybe, or you do the dishes, or you work too hard, or you accuse me all the time, stupid fights, dingbat fights, the sorts of fights we'd rarely had before we became proud parents, washed out, worn out, our child glowing with good health.
So there I was, at Pizzeria Uno, single pie, deep dish, the crust with that golden flake to it. And I had the box in my pocket. And I stood up and carried my girl to the girl's room, where I peed on the stick and together we watched the wash of blue saturate the window, the slow suffusion of a pretty color resolving itself into two lines, penned and indelible. My girl pointed. "Ooo," she said. "Zebra."
I hadn't planned on getting pregnant; it was an accident, as all pregnancies in some sense are. It happened. There it was. Mother of one. Mother of two. Two! Did I want a second child?
Who doesn't want a second child? A one-child family curses itself forever into the shape of the stern triangle, all isosceles. The two-child family, though, or the three- or the four-, is where you get the stable squares, the whimsical octagons, shapes without point and problem. In our family, my daughter frankly loved my husband better than me. He was the magician; I, the administrator. He yelped and rolled and built huge snowmen with her, while I stayed inside and stocked the cupboards with Balmex and laxatives. I often felt left out of their rip-roaring cub play because I am not a cub. I am a woman. A second child, I thought, staring at the stick in that Pizzeria Uno, a second child will balance us out; one for me, one for him. Let's do it.
And yet already, I had my misgivings: Money. Time. Career. The quote I'd read somewhere: "With one, you're a moving target. With two, you're a sitting duck." I felt like a duck, heavy and webbed. I felt elation and fear.
Unexpected Job Loss
Then this happened: my husband lost his job. He has a chronic arm injury that makes computer use excruciatingly painful, and frankly, he was grateful for the layoff, a time to rest. It occurred to me, though not for the first time, that we lived in the shadow of sickness; we were both wounded, in different ways. He cannot use a screwdriver or hold a pen; I can hold a pen, for sure, but I take six pills per day. So, he was out of work, and the Dow had, at that point, started its gruesome slide. We could no longer afford our child care, which shouldn't have mattered, given that now he was home, but how could he stay home and look for employment at the same time? Money. Money. Money.
Meanwhile, inside the capsule of my uterus, this being was forming, the size of a bean, with two embossed spots inked in. We calculated--how horrible--what a second would cost us, extra years of day care, high school, college. I went to the obstetrician-gynecologist and heard the heartbeat. It was going so fast, like it was anxious. I started to cry.
To his credit, my husband looked and looked. He looked panicked. We hired temporary child care so I could earn and he could look. We began to see ahead of us a long life of serious toil, just to make ends meet. When we were 53 we'd be scratching the bottom of our savings to pay for college. It wasn't just the money. It was what the money represented, a life where you squeeze yourself out to the last drop, husked by a system that demands cash in exchange for basic needs, like health care, like education. My friend Elizabeth said, regarding money, "I'm having a second. I just figure there'll be a way to do it," and of course she was right. There's always a way to do it. But at what cost? And why rock the boat, especially when it's rickety? And, yet, to not rock the boat, to live a life only on the safe side . . . Risk and benefit. Benefit and risk.
Unable to Escape Regret
One night, late, I woke up. I was eight weeks pregnant now. Benjamin had sent out batches of CVs. He was getting worried, his face pale, his arms tensed and hurting. And I woke up, the house dense in its darkness, a single headlight sweeping over our ceiling, then gone. I turned in the bed and he was not there. I found him in his study, staring out the window. Here's what was strange. It was snowing, and the window was open, and the snow was piling up in drifts on his desk. We couldn't keep that weather out, you see. His computer was frosted, his pens furred, his hands speckled with white. "Benjamin," I said, softly. "Benjamin, close the window."
"The window's broken," he said in a soft voice, and as soon as he said that, I saw the baby recede from me; I saw the baby get very small and distant. I looked at my husband. There was something so sad and strained in his face, and in my face too, I'm sure. And it suddenly occurred to me that either way, no matter what we did, we were going to regret it. "I'm getting an abortion," I said. I said it more to see what it sounded like, to try it on, but when he turned to me, I saw something hopeful in his eyes.
"We can't have everything," he said.
Back in our bedroom, I slid open the night table. I'd put the positive pregnancy test in there, a sort of souvenir. "Zebra," my daughter had said. Now I saw the stripes as just that: stripes. Two lines. Our limits.
I had an abortion at eight weeks, and I am not proud to say that, god no, not at all. But I needed to protect what was definitely human, at the expense of that which was not. Soon after the abortion, the fatigue and depression ebbed as my hormones returned to normal, my hopefulness returned and my self emerged again, hello. Goodbye.
Today, two years later, I often wonder what that embryo would have been--boy or girl, brown or blue eyed, a cuddle bug or standoffish? Either way, I would have loved it, this I know to be true. But would my marriage and my mind have survived the strain of a second; would I be writing fiction as well as my more marketable magazine pieces; would Clara know how to read and write, skills she acquired early, because of the attention she has gotten? I don't say these things to make it all sound okay. It's not okay. Something serious was lost. And something serious would have been gained. An opportunity missed, but a space kept reasonably safe. We are a family that works the way we are.
Immune to the rush being a sexist asshole to real women provides, man makes up woman to harass, becomes Twitter hero.— Mychal Denzel Smith (@mychalsmith) December 3, 2013
I believe abortion should be illegal except in cases of rape, incest, the life of the mother is endangered, or if the fetus is @scottandrewh— Todd Kincannon (@ToddKGulag) December 2, 2013
Eventually, once you've killed enough of the savages, a savage culture will become civilized. Cherokee Injuns & Japaneses are fine examples.— Todd Kincannon (@ToddKGulag) December 1, 2013
.@EasyDollars4U My grandmother hosted a party after JFK got his brains splattered. Her only regret was that Johnson didn't take a bullet too— Todd Kincannon (@ToddKGulag) December 1, 2013
I feel no more regret that my ancestors curb-stomped Injuns out of America than I do over killing a mosquito. That's what happens to savages— Todd Kincannon (@ToddKGulag) November 28, 2013
I'll raise my children "clearly and thoughtfully not filled with teenage drama and angst" #prochoice— Paige~ (@paige_who_rage) November 29, 2013
My abortion made me a better parent.
Yup, you read that right, I had an abortion and it was positive.
I was 18, immature, in a relationship with someone who was equally immature, and had no direction. Prime material for teen pregnancy.
Shit happens and the pill is not 100% effective.
But despite my teenage condition, I knew that until I was capable of taking care of myself that I could not take care of anyone else.
So I traveled an hour to the closest clinic, had the procedure, which was quick, clean, professional and relatively painless (despite moving into my second trimester). I was almost 9 weeks pregnant before I even realized my situation.
Apparently, the further along a woman is in pregnancy the more complicated the procedure can get. That's why it is so critical to have access to abortion services as early as possible. If I did not have to spend time getting referrals, I would have had the procedure earlier.
It was a very real experience that taught me a lot about who I was and where I wanted to go in life. I am grateful for the lessons learned.
Fast-forward 7 years. I'm married, happy, healthy, financially stable, and expecting. Oh, and did I mention TOTALLY ready for parenthood.
What I knew I couldn't be at 18, I was 25, and again at 28.
And let me tell you, there is a HUGE difference between accidently getting knocked up and consciously making a baby...WOW!
My children were brought into this little plain of existence with more love and desire than some people ever receive in a lifetime and they deserve it.
Everyone deserves this.
Often times I look at my kids and get overwhelmed with the thought that I would not have been the most excellent parent that I am today without the critical family planning choices I made as a teen.
I am able raise my children clearly and thoughtfully, not in a cloud of teenage drama and angst. I am whole-heartedly thankful for this and am so looking forward to the people they become."