I write not because I have the cure or the answers.
I write because it is all I know.
I know my son does not understand his FASD. And what he does understand he does not like.
He is frustrated with himself and with the crazy stimuli of this world constantly bombarding him.
And why me for his mother? Who am I?
I am not wealthy: I cannot pour money into a cause like Donald Trump, Bono or Jenny McCarthy.
I do not have the clout of Oprah.
Nor the knowledge of Diane Malbin.
I am me.
Middle class, average mom.
I know that God did not want his birthmother to drink and I know God did not want my son to have FASD…yet, I know that God chose to place this specific child, with his specific disabilities, into my family, as my son, so that I could learn patience.
So I would come to rely on God.
So I would take up the mantle of an Alcohol Related Neurological Disorder... that I would become passionate for a cause that I would otherwise view as an inconvenience and interruption… that I could educate those in my world of the life-long, incurable - -yet 100% preventable - - disability of FASD.
This I know.