“OK, I’ll drive,” slurs an inebriated teen, anxious to make curfew after a night furtively drinking with buddies.

“OK, just this once,” whispers a recklessly insecure eighth-grader to her impatient and promiscuous boyfriend.

“OK” is the sound of an undeveloped life spontaneously combusting, as a pipe packed with poison and synthetic feelings passes from one young hand to another.

If I needed a bone-chilling reminder that even best-intentioned, loving families aren’t immune to a tragic reality reshuffling, I got it in Beautiful Boy (Houghton Mifflin Co.), the New York Times bestseller by David Sheff. As both the author and heartbroken father in his true story, Sheff chronicles how drug addiction side-swiped his family’s destiny. Until one fateful instant — one thoughtless, irreparable “OK” — Sheff and I had lived parallel lives; a fact that jarringly struck me in my most vulnerable place – motherhood.

California-raised (him northern, me southern) journalists, both Sheff and I are young enough to have Zeppelin downloaded into our iPods and old enough to have Zeppelin on 8-track cartridges collecting dust somewhere. We both married in our 20s and produced adored and lovingly indulged firstborn sons; Nic, the son Sheff writes about with achingly naked poignancy, is a few years older than my beautiful boy, Joshua. Mommy and Me classes, weekends on the beach, sleepovers at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s, private schools and music lessons filled our sons’ formative years; sports were encouraged, but academics stressed, in both homes.

Our similar journeys ended abruptly on an otherwise ordinary day. At 18 years old and on the precipice of his adult life, Nic said “OK” to meth. As simple and devastating as that. One “OK,” and an idyllic upbringing spiraled into bleakness, with desperately devoted parents following after until they miserably conceded that their son had to find his way home … or (unbearably) not.

“OK” — the difference between my son heading toward college, a girlfriend and a long, gloriously unscripted future and Nic stumbling between life and death as addiction hungrily stalks him, his outlook sadly predictable. Potential and hope permanently detoured with one muttered, reluctant, impulsive, weak, impetuous or implied, “OK.”

It’s impossible to reconcile one wretched “OK” with my ostensible luck and Sheff’s devastating adversity. Was it Sheff’s divorce when Nic was 5, leniency or misplaced trust, something I said, something Sheff didn’t, something Josh discerned or that resonated within him, which enabled him to avoid or reject what Nic couldn’t, didn’t?  How naively comforting it’d be to think that my kid paid better attention, had more common sense, however, “There but for the grace of God go I” repeats in my brain’s parental lobe instead. Proclaim that your progeny would “never … (fill in the blank),” and risk waking the Sleeping Karmic Giant, every parent’s looming boogeyman.

I once watched a TV show where well-loved, bright children were approached by a “stranger,” who was actually a hired actor. Educated and attentive mothers (who’d role-played nefarious scenarios with their children ad nauseam) eagerly agreed to watch their diligence pay off on hidden cameras. After witnessing one child after another walk off with the “stranger” for various reasons, the slack-jawed moms were stunned humbly silent. Never say “never” in regards to children.

Unless we raise “bubble babies” in escape-proof biotopes, our parental control will invariably dilute like a frozen margarita in the sun. Even in preschool for a few hours a day, choices are as abundant as germs; ultimately, our little jewels will have to navigate minefields of consequences (and sleeping giants) armed only with our examples and their own free will.

Of course an optimist would say that our children are one “OK” away from trying something new and positive, like lacrosse or debate team, or running for school president or one day public office, even marrying a soul mate. And conversely, there have been many a well-planned, perfectly-timed, life-preserving “no thanks” and “I’ll pass” along the way, too. Perhaps after we thank whomever for another day without a misplaced “OK,” we should also celebrate the preventive head shaking, mumbled excuses and uncomfortable silences that, like stepping stones across a rushing river, deliver our children closer to safety.

I wish vehemently that all kids could live comfortably enough within their own skins to shout “Hell, no!” or “Are you crazy?” when tempted by peer pressure and negative distractions. Because sometimes, a single, regrettable “OK,” can be a “giant” awakening.