Later — too late — we learned that ADHD comes with a higher risk of addictive behaviors

As told to S.T. Agam

It’s 11.45 a.m. I feel queasy. We’ve been on the road since 9:30 a.m. and I haven’t had breakfast.

The first time we took this trip because of Ari, he was just four weeks old. Our ninth child, he was the latest addition to a large, vibrant brood. I’d worried how he’d handle the Israeli summer heat, but his head had quickly dropped to his neck and he had slipped into baby dreamland.

With Ari snuggled in the crook of his elbow, my husband presented him to our Rebbe, who took one look at him and said: “You’ve brought a great neshamah down to the world…!”

Naftoli and I exchanged glances. I didn’t know what the Rebbe saw, but a rush of contentment washed over me.

Now, 15 years later, my husband steps on the gas and speeds past the same road signs we’ve passed so many times since. I try to recapture that moment of bliss — the confidence I had in Ari’s future, the love for a son who was still a blank slate. I blink back tears instead.

Ari had issues as a toddler, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Slow to crawl, he made his way across our parquet only three days before he managed to stand. He drooled a lot. It was very unsightly, and I was constantly changing his dripping tees. But the doctor just recommended facial exercises and assured us it would pass.

It did, but Ari never checked into that delicious toddler stage that made me cuddle and tickle all my other children.

When Ari was five, we moved far up north. It was a spur-of-the-moment-decision; Naftoli had been offered a one-in-a-million position, perfect for someone with my husband’s skill set. It was a move we never regretted, but looking back, that’s when Ari began acting out. Still, we didn’t hear about ADD until he was eight, and it was only when hyperactivity set in, several years later, that we were given a clear diagnosis of ADHD.

I hate saying this, but growing up, if Ari ever looked cute, I was the only one to notice. Short, thin, and pasty-faced, he was the classic comic-book nerd. In an unflinchingly cruel boys’ world, he was a magnet for nasty jokes.

His early adolescence spools through my mind in a blur of distant cameos, and as I press my temple against the window, I see how he was sucked into the messy swamp he flounders in today. I feel a crick in my neck and search for a better position. Hindsight provides scant comfort.