I’m at my pediatricians’ office with my teenage daughter, Hannah. She’s having her annual physical. The receptionist hands me a clipboard, with some paperwork attached.
“Sorry to make you do this,” she says, “but we’ve just started using a new computer system and we need everyone to fill out these forms. I know we already have most of this information, but if you could fill out the forms, that would make it much easier for us.”
I hate filling out forms, but I love my kids’ doctors and want to be cooperative, so I find a seat in the waiting area and start to work.
Hannah sits next to me. Instead of pulling out her phone, she leans against me and watches me. “I’m going to have to fill out forms like this for myself pretty soon,” she says, by way of explanation. I smile at her and go back to my task.
Name, address, insurance information, all pretty routine. Then I come to a section which asks questions about my pregnancies and deliveries. There’s a row of boxes that need to be filled in with numbers: Pregnancies, Live Births, Still Births, Abortions.
I hesitate, knowing Hannah’s still watching. For a second, I consider lying. Then I plunge ahead and fill in the boxes honestly: Pregnancies: 5, Live Births: 3, Still Births: 0, Abortions: 2. In one moment, my daughter, my oldest, has learned something about me that I’ve previously chosen not to tell her. Will she be shocked? Will she judge me? Will she somehow feel that she’s lost her status as my first child?
My first child. When I told my mother about my first abortion, she said, “That was my first grandchild.” I didn’t tell her about my second abortion.
When I meet Hannah’s eyes, I see surprise, but also understanding. She gives me a slight nod. I’ve raised her to be a feminist and perhaps I’ve succeeded. But she’s also a daughter. I hope she’ll somehow feel special to know that she’s the first possible child to whom I said yes.