From the time Zachary was in utero, refusing to make a timely entrance into the world, he has been my challenge.

The sheet of loose-leaf paper was covered in kindergartner's scrawl: "I will not cross the street without a grownup. . . . I will not cross the street without a grownup. . . ." and so on down the page. The handwriting was uneven — starting off very small at the top and ballooning toward the bottom — and the pencil's tip grew duller by the line, but the upper-case letters used up every last inch of space, as per my instructions. This had been my son Zachary's punishment for darting across the street against traffic, leaving me shaking and dumb-founded as I helplessly watched his latest act of derring-do.

I had stood there trembling, the light still red as the cars whooshed by, my body awash in that post-traumatic surge of adrenaline that kicks in when something terrible almost happens. My blood boiled over, coursing through every vein, rising to my face, burning me up. The busy two-lane street humming with early evening traffic yawned between us, and my immediate reaction was to yell: "Come back here." I quickly rethought the stupidity of that, and added, "Stay there!"

Later that evening, driving to the supermarket, all I could ponder was how, but for the grace of G-d, I could be on my way to the hospital, or worse.

Added years and maturity have eased my son's anger. Life with him, though still a roller coaster, is no longer the Cyclone.

So many of us have one. That certain child who really knows how to turn our screws. From the time Zachary was in utero, refusing to make a timely entrance into the world as he carried me well into my tenth month of pregnancy, he has been my challenge. Always good in school, he saves his aggressions for me, something I suppose I should be thankful for, but that nevertheless often leaves me scared to go home.

He was an angry baby, and nights during the first year of his life found me walking the halls, trying to comfort him, often to no avail.

At eighteen months, he quietly slipped into the dining room where we had lit Chanukah candles, pushed a chair over to the menorah, and used one burning candle to light another. We did not consider that he could have been the culprit, and consequently we blamed it on our three-year-old, until we were witness to the same act the next night.

At age two, Zachary went into the linen closet, climbed up to get the iron from a top shelf (where I thought it was out of harm's way), plugged it in, burned a hole in the carpet, unplugged it, and put it back.

Thankfully, added years and maturity have eased his anger. Life with him, though still a roller coaster, is no longer the Cyclone. But I can never put my guard down. A very bright child, Zachary, at eight years old, is almost a model student, except for his pent-up energy. Kept busy, he is wonderful; given any leeway, he can wreak havoc.

"He is my best student," said last year's second grade teacher at our conference in March. "He just needs to be less aggressive with his friends." She went on to explain how Zachary pushes his way to the front of the line, slaps his friends on their backs a little too heartily, gets in their faces a little too closely.

I noticed that this differed from her report earlier in the year, and remembered the same regression occurring the year before. I realized that Zachary's tether tends to shorten as the school year lengthens. He began to get into trouble on the bus, and before I knew it he was having fights with his friends. We tried everything. Read him the riot act. Spoke calmly and positively. Punished him when necessary.

But it didn't work. One night, my neighbor, who is a very good friend, called. I thought she just wanted to chat, but I was wrong. "Jodi," she said, "I feel terrible calling you, but Zachary has been very mean to Steven [her 7-year-old], taunting him and calling him names. I tried to get Steven to work it out on his own, but Zachary won't seem to let up."

I felt absolutely horrible. Embarrassed, disappointed, sad. My son wasn't nice? My husband and I have tried to instill many values in our children, but we always stressed most how important it is to be caring and sensitive toward others. Could it be that deep down inside, beneath Zachary's tough veneer, there really was no sweet adoring child waiting to be hugged? Was the tender Zachary I'd seen helping his brother ride a bike or cradling his baby cousin just a fleeting phantom? I refused to believe that. But I didn't want to punish him again; that would just add to the anger already inside. At this point, rather than taking away, I wanted to add, and so I decided he should participate in a mitzvah, a good deed, hoping he would see that there are others less fortunate than he. Perhaps somehow this would make him a better person.

My heart turned over. This was my Zack. The one who every night asks me to scratch his back as he goes to sleep.

My husband contacted the local tomchei Shabbos, a group in our neighborhood that distributes food to the needy every week. They were always looking for people to volunteer and help with the distribution. Here was a chance for my husband and Zachary to work side by side for a worthwhile cause. The tomchei Shabbos has so many volunteers that my husband's services were only needed every six weeks. But it was definitely better than nothing, and he and Zachary were added to the rotation.

The first time, Zachary was reluctant to go. But we gave him no choice, and he begrudgingly trudged along. To my delight, he came back talkative and enlightened, describing the homes of the people he visited.

The next time he again put up a fight, but we pushed once more. He came back full of energy and surprise — one man to whom they had delivered food had given him a dollar tip! He had tried to demur, but thought that would be too insulting, so he came back a dollar richer. Later that night, as I was tucking him into bed, he wanted to talk about it. "I can't believe the man gave me a dollar," he said in that scratchy pre-slumber voice of his. And then, as if an angel came down from the skies, he added, "Seeing poor people always makes me so sad. All I want to do is bring them home with me."

My heart turned over. This was my Zack. The one who every night, no matter how many times during the day we butt horns, asks me to scratch his back as he goes to sleep. And as I tell him I love him, he says in that raspy, sleepy voice of his: "I love you too. Stay here. More." This was the Zack of tender moments, the one who would sit cozily between his father and myself, an arm around each of us, curling our hair with his fingertips. This was the lamb of my womb, and I felt vindicated.

More recently, standing in front of a funeral home minutes before his great-grandfather was eulogized, Zachary came face to face with a man begging for money. The rest of us, overwhelmed by the emotions of the day, brushed the man aside, having no patience for his plight. Zachary followed our lead at first, but once inside, he decided that he needed to take action.

"Mom, that man needs money," he said. "We have to give him some." I looked at my son — the same son who needs to be constantly occupied else he gets into trouble, the one who picks fights when he has nothing better to do — I looked at him and saw he was visibly upset. "Here, Zack," I said, handing him a few dollars. "Go give this to the man." Despite our surroundings and our reason for being there, I watched Zack go toward the man, and I smiled.

No, I am not so naïve to think that Zachary is reincarnated, nor do I want him to be. Part of what makes him Zachary is his feistiness and relentless energy. And I do not expect him to be Mr. Nice Guy; that's just not who he is. But beneath the surface lies a wonderful soul that I am determined to nurture. I only hope that I can continue to help him channel his energies in positive directions.

Jodi DuBow's writing has appeared in The Forward, The Jewish Week, Big Apple Parents Paper, and other Jewish and general publications. She lives in Woodmere, NY.