It was a scorching day so I?d taken my children to a splash pad. I was watching my daughters dancing in the water, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of my nine-year-old son, Allan, dart into the parking lot. He ran right in front of a moving car, which had to swerve not to hit him. I bolted over and grabbed him by the arm.
?Why would you do that" You could have been killed!?
This came as a surprise to Allan. He?d spotted a bee at the splash pad and run from it, not thinking for a moment that hurtling through the parking lot held far greater dangers.
Allan drifted through his days, coming downstairs in the morning wearing yesterday?s dirty clothes, never closing cupboard doors or drawers, forgetting to zip his schoolbag as he headed out the door with his hair unbrushed. Every interaction was tinged with frustration, and I felt I was failing as a parent. None of the tricks that I?d learned parenting my two eldest sons worked. Almost immediately after Allan came into our family, it was clear to me something was very wrong. Nine years ago, when my husband, Trevor, and I set out to adopt, we had two stipulations: The child must be able to live independently one day and must not have been exposed to alcohol prenatally. From what we?d heard in our adoption classes, alcohol exposure created a muddle of impossible behaviours, far beyond what we could handle.
In the end we didn?t end up adopting a child?we adopted four children. The siblings we fell in love with fr...