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My four-year-old tornado girl literally hits the ground running every morning.

It's a challenge, especially for us, her parents, who were perhaps a little older than some when she arrived in our home.

Like many other children adopted from foster care, her prenatal circumstances were less than ideal. An alphabet soup list of diagnoses trails her out the door every morning — SPD, ADHD, FASD, which stand for sensory processing disorder, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and fetal alcohol spectrum disorder. A whole list of words that basically mean her little brain functions differently than her sister's, differently than mine.

In addition to her cascading chestnut curls and stunning big brown eyes, which always have a twinkle in them, my beautiful second child has a complete lack of impulse control.

Ainsley runs everywhere, touches everything, sticks things in her mouth, jumps off tall platforms and runs in front of cars. She will even bolt out the front door if we don't keep it locked with multiple safety devices.

No is a meaningless term that seldom sinks in before her hand can execute its action. If scissors are left out she cuts her hair. If knives are nearby she carries them around the house in a threatening manner. If the stove is left on she will touch it, not thinking, stunned when her hand comes back smarting from a burn. Her hands, her feet, always act before her mind can think it through.

It's said that having a child is a little like watching your heart walk around outside your body. It's all of that and more. My heart is forever running away.

I love both my children with a blinding intensity I never could have imagined or described in the days when I was childless. I have learned CPR and first aid to keep them safe. I agonize over which schools they will attend, pack nutritious snacks and would give either one a kidney if they needed it.

I read the current research and subscribe to parenting magazines. I do my best to hold them close while surrounding them with opportunities to grow and shine.

It's a life's work every day keeping Ainsley safe and giving her proper outlets for her athleticism, curiosity and energy.

Some days we race from school to martial arts to the park for her to climb, swing or run, then on to swimming or skating lessons. No time left unstructured.

Time without constrictions, lessons or a physical anchor equals chaos. If we are lucky we manage to wear her out before we collapse into bed ourselves.

A parent at my daughter's school joked recently, "If Ainsley doesn't grow up to be a track star I will be very surprised." Me too, I think, and cross my fingers.

Impulsive behaviour left unchecked, without focus or medications or, worse yet, without being recognized as such, just looks like bad behaviour. Badly behaved, misunderstood kids grow up to be misunderstood adults. And so we run all day every day, trying to outpace the vision of an imperfect future, trying to channel her impulses.

There are precious moments. I'm a writer, by nature a homebody, given to long periods of introspection. My daughter takes me outside my head. I've become, by necessity, more physically fit than I was at 25. I skate and swim and play soccer. What's more I enjoy it.

Impulsive behaviour brings new friends. My child has no fear, and so I meet strangers as she approaches them without guile, seeking them out, engaging in conversations that drag me outside my comfort zone.

Some of these strangers have evolved into friends. A lovely lady at the drugstore lets my daughter help her stock shelves. Calls it her job, tells her she's a great helper.

We live on a street where we seldom see our neighbours and yet, for no apparent reason, one day my daughter hugged an elderly neighbour and made her smile. No pet escapes her reach. And babies are tiny magnets drawing her in until she leans over and pats them on the head like a benediction.

My funny, quirky girl straps on skates and runs across the ice. She dives headfirst into the pool at the YMCA or into the lake at the cottage, and has to be pulled out coughing when her lips start to turn purple. Ferris wheels and roller coasters — she fights to ride them all.

Picture a four-year-old cannonballing into an adults-only hot tub at a resort in Florida, just because we were walking past. Eyes bulging, sputtering panic as she swirled around and around in the whirlpool jets. A look I will never forget as I plucked her out.

Ainsley has always surprised us with her intensity. She takes us places we have never been, and we follow — sometimes because we have to and other times just to see where she will lead us next.

Paula Schuck lives in London, Ont.

Illustration by Neal Cresswell.