We had a lovely weekend. The kids and I. Alexander had Little League Baseball games on both Saturday and Sunday, Jane had a sleepover Saturday night, and both kids got to play with their friends who are moving back to Australia.

Today I wanted to take them up and down Auto Row so they could sit in the backseat of a few cars. Even if I like a car, the kids need to be comfortable in the back seat. We went to Subaru and they went nuts for the Outback. I can’t go for a car that doesn’t have heat or air vents in the back seats. They’re going to be miserable back there.

I digress.

After we came back from car shopping, but before heading off to my mom’s house for dinner, the kids retreated for a little quiet time. I went into my office to look at a few car options online, and Alexander tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Can I read this book?” “Sure”, I said without so much as turning my head.

A few moments later I heard a gasp from the playroom followed by Alexander muttering eew gross. The book he’d asked to read? It’s called “Where Did I Come From”, and I remember buying it for my kids, because it was the book my mother bought me. It includes pictures an awful lot like this.

I took a deep breath and asked my son if he wanted to talk about the book. He muttered something about Dad already told me this. I asked him if there were any new bits of information? He muttered again about how Dad told him everything so I told him that I’d be happy to talk to him, but if he wanted to wait a day he could talk to Dad tomorrow or even Grandpa today.

He shook his head, and I asked him if he’d like to continue reading the book alone. My boy is not a talker, and today I loved him a little more for that.

Everyone goes about their business, the kids play on the street, and I get us ready to go to my Mom’s for dinner. Dinner is great, we head back home and there is hideous traffic on the 405 Sepulveda Pass and it appeared that Sepulveda Blvd was a mess too. I turned on news radio (something I never do with kids in the car) and we got to hear about Health-care Reform while waiting for a traffic report.

“Mom, what’s an abortion?” Jane asked me.

Traffic, traffic everywhere.There is no escaping this conversation. I take a deep breath and I explain that the abortion bill will never affect her but that it is very very bad.

I tell my daughter how people who can’t afford health care will get health care from the government, but that it will not cover the cost of an abortion. I tell her this is a mistake, because women who cannot get abortions will find other ways, and illegal abortions may be less expensive but they will also be dangerous and girls will die. Equally awful is forcing a young woman to be a mother when she is not ready.

I told both kids that they must use birth control, they will have sex, but they must not do it without birth control because there are diseases and babies they aren’t ready for. I said, “You are not to have unprotected sex until after you are married.” I look to my son to ask what he thinks, he is in the fetal position asleep. Jane wants to know who gets abortions. Clearly this question is relevant since I’ve basically told my children they will be having premarital sex, just not without a condom.

Girls a lot like you. “The health care bill won’t ever apply to you”, I tell her, “you and your friends, you have insurance, and you have parents who will help you no matter what.” I can’t give my eleven year old daughter permission to have an abortion, but she has to know I’m here.

I want to tell her that abortions are terrible and that babies die. I want to explain that it’s an agonizing decision for most women, because it does involve ending another life. I want her to know that I think it’s wrong. I don’t tell her these things. I bite my tongue.

I need my daughter to trust me. This conversation, this bumper to bumper traffic at eight on a Saturday night, may be our lifeline one day. Our casual conversations are loaded. My daughter is a bright girl, and she remembers minutia. She senses the subtexts of conversations.What if? Not for her, but for one of her friends? What if there’s a need and my daughter doesn’t trust me?

I thrust my eleven year old daughter headlong into the Women’s Liberation movement. I did it all while driving a station wagon.