I’ve been quiet in this space, but it’s not for lack of words. (Lack of words, I hope, will never be an issue for me. I’m sure Mike, at least, would say that’s not a concern.) It’s just that most of my written words for the past six months have been flowing to Lifehacker.

When Lifehacker’s parenting editor went on maternity leave at the end of October, I temporarily filled in for her, writing and editing the site’s parenting content. When she returned full-time at the end of February, they asked me to stick around and keep writing on parenting and non-parenting topics. (The only thing I love more than writing about parenting is the freedom to also write about other stuff once in a while.)

The best thing about this gig is that I can write pieces that I think are really freakin’ important, like “How to Educate Your Kids About White Supremacy,” “How to Not Raise a Bully,” “How to Talk to Your Kids About Climate Change” and “How to Help Prevent Sexual Assault on Flights.”

I can write stuff that I think is genuinely helpful, like “How to Move (and Stay Sane) When You Have Kids,” “Get Rid of Your Kid’s Bad Day With a Magic Spell” and “Compliment Other Parents When You See Them Doing a Good Job.”

And then I can have a little fun: “Buy Your Toddler a Dog Bed.” “Should You Let Your Kids Eat Their Boogers?” “How to Clean a Beer Growler.”

I can tackle everything from home ownership (“How to Close Off Your Home’s ‘Open Concept’ Now That You Hate It“) to entertainment (“How to Survive the Final Season of Game of Thrones If You’re Not a Fan“) to health (“You Can Find Your Favorite Retro Exercise Videos on YouTube.”)

Can you tell I’m having fun? So. Much. Fun.

So while I might be quiet in this space, I’m likely chatting away incessantly over at Lifehacker. You can read All The World’s Best Life Hacks here, you can check out the parent-specific hacks, or you can read whatever I feel like writing on any given day.

Eight years old. Second grade. My gosh, how old that sounds, how big you seem. And I know it’s not just my imagination. You literally grew 3 inches taller and 9 pounds heavier since last year. When you hug me now, you wrap your arms around my waist, and I barely have to lean over to kiss the top of your head. I don’t know how we got to the point where I can suddenly envision you surpassing me in height, but here we are.

Mario backpack? Check! Ready for second grade.

Although, it should be noted that I DID pick you up in my arms the other night AND I carried you UPSTAIRS, and I was rather pleased with myself for still being able to do that. Especially considering you weigh a whopping 73 pounds. (But don’t tell Grandpa I did this, because the sheer thought of it could give the man a heart attack.)

You have (finally) totally distanced yourself from the dinosaur obsession and are hugely into anything Star Wars. The movies, the Legos, the Clone Wars animated show, even that “Brick Show Brian” dude who records himself playing Star Wars video games and offers up tips and annoying commentary (if I hear him refer to “Count Dooku” as “Count Dookie” one more time, I don’t know what I’ll do but it won’t be pretty). You say now that your future profession of choice is “videogame-maker,” so I’m trying to chalk all of this up to “research.”

Went to a festival with Ryan; came home with Darth Maul. DON’T WORRY WE’RE FINE.

Ry-guy, you are crushing it at Tang Soo Do this year. You earned your first belt stripe during the summer, and we’ve heard that you’re on track to test for your orange belt in the next month. It has been so fun to watch you progress in martial arts … we can almost see from week to week how you become a little more focused, a little stronger, a little more balanced, a little more precise, a little more confident. You trained 4-5 days a week over the summer – not because we ever pressured you to but because you really, truly wanted to be there – you were not above begging, if necessary. Even when it was in the 90s outside and beyond stuffy in the old manufacturing building where you train, you still wanted to go. That’s where your tenacity shines, kiddo.

Photo taken in March, only weeks after you started Tang Soo Do.

Once again, you’re a brick wall on the soccer field. I know that you – like most kids who play soccer – want to be a star on offense. And I know you have it in you to play offense well; but the truth is, when you’re not on defense, the other teams score All The Goals. When you’re on defense, you are what one teammate has deemed “The Stopping Machine.” One mom on the sidelines calls you “Big Foot” because you’re known for rushing at the opponent and knocking that ball right out from under him and back up the field to our offense.

Those are your coaches in the background, just chillin’, waiting for you to smash it up.

But what’s more important than talent or skill is the fact that you freaking hustle. You are focused on the game and you run your little heart out. You never give up, no matter the score. And you’re never mad when you lose, only moderately disappointed with a side of “but it could’ve been worse and here’s what we DID do well.” That’s the exact right attitude to have.

You used to say that “recess” was your favorite subject, but this school year, it’s math. I’m a little in awe of that because it’s a subject I never enjoyed and certainly never had an aptitude for, but it makes sense because you have such an ordered, logical brain. We’ve been clearing stuff out of the basement over the summer and have been selling a lot of it. I told you that you could keep 10 percent of the proceeds of all sales. I only had to explain once what “10 percent” meant, and since then, you’ve been able to tally not only our total sales at any given time but, most importantly, your cut.

And yet, you’re also still incredibly creative. You’ve been writing and illustrating your own comic books this year (you are most inspired by the Captain Underpants series), and you’re pretty darn funny. You pride yourself on being able to make others laugh, and you’re constantly trying to get a handle on comedic timing and why certain things are funny when they’re said in a certain way at a certain time. You’re also picking up on the sarcastic humor that runs rampant on my side of your family… You and I went out for ice cream recently (the last stop after several other stops that included heavy traffic and some jerky drivers). As we sat and ate our ice cream, you told a joke, I laughed, and then you quipped, “Well, at least you didn’t lose your sense of humor in the drive.”

While your Dad and I are very hesitant to continue fostering, you continue to be very drawn to it. You’ve accused me of “not doing my job” as a foster mom because we haven’t been taking long-term placements. And you don’t just talk-the-talk, you also walk-the-walk. When we provided respite care for a sweet little 2-month-old baby and her 2-year-old brother earlier this month, you were as welcoming, accommodating and helpful as a kid could be. I’m always impressed at the way you are able to ignore your need for order in the face of a child who wants to play with (or destroy) all of your stuff. You have a heart for little kids and you have a way with them that doesn’t come naturally to everyone (including me, if I’m being totally honest). If you choose to be a father someday, I can already see that you’ll be a great one.

Helping little dude hit the “zombie” off the fence post with a “grenade.” (Sorry, if you bring your kids to us for respite care, they will have to fight off zombies. They run rampant in our neighborhood.)

Ry, you have a strong, intense personality, which is a blessing that can sometimes feel like curse. The blessing is that you get to experience life at a heightened emotional level than the average person. To feel things as deeply as you do can be a real gift; it is the stuff of incredible joy and empathy. The curse is that the negative feelings can be overwhelming and, as a result, you are often too hard on yourself.

Always remember that you are amazing exactly the way you are. You are a gift to us; you are the person who turned Daddy and I from a couple into a family. I will never forget the first moment I saw you, when the doctor handed you to me and we locked eyes and I thought, “oh, there you are.” I recognized you, like I’d been searching for you all my life without even realizing it. Any missteps or mistakes you make in your life pales in comparison to the good and the joy that you’ve brought to our lives.

I think I’ll always be in awe of you. Your intelligence, your sensitivity, your sense of humor. The way you barrel through life as though you’re on a mission to do it all and feel it all. You are, truly, such a wonder.

Being your mom is the greatest privilege of my life. I am so proud of you.

I love you, my sweets. Happy birthday.

Love,

Mommy

P.S. Ryan, in case you’re ever wondering whether you’re special … in the past week, nearly 150 people have donated more than $5,200 (and counting!) in honor of your birthday to grant wishes to kids in foster care. When I told you that I set up this fundraiser, you said, “But why would people donate for me? I don’t even do the foster work.” Oh yes, you certainly do. You’ve been a “brother” to two boys and you’ve helped care for two more kids. You are an inspiration, and because of you, dozens of kids in care will get their simple wishes granted. (See? SO PROUD.)

***

Previous birthday letters to Ryan:

Seven years.

Six years.

5.5 years.

Five years.

4.5 years.

Four years.

3.5 years.

Three years.

2.5 years.

Two years.

1.5 years.

One year.

Six months.

“Will you stand and watch me?” he finally asks.

Our chairs are close enough to the water that I can easily see him from where I’m sitting. But I know what he needs; he needs me closer and more vigilant. He needs a safety net. After two straight days of confident jumping and splashing in a relatively calm ocean, the waves had gotten tall enough and rough enough for him to take notice.

He’s a kid we’ve often described as “cautious,” a child who instinctively knows his limits. He screamed his way through nearly every minute of swim lessons as a baby, an exercise we tortured him with once a week for several months, convinced there was some invisible “hump” he was about to overcome. And the first time he came to the shore as a toddler, he refused to even let the water lap at his toes until the late afternoon of the very last day.

Now, at almost 8 years old, he studies the movements of the waves. Every moment he’s in the water, he is watching and waiting, determining how he will react. He’s not simply looking at the next wave about to crest in front of him; he’s also analyzing the one starting to form behind it and the merest of ripples that are destined to be next in line. He knows when to let the water carry him along, he knows when to jump, when to dive. He knows when the current is drifting him from our chairs and umbrellas, and he auto-corrects.

It occurs to me now that the water scared him as a baby because he didn’t understand it. The movement of such water was too foreign and confusing to him to feel safe. He wasn’t in control. But now, after years of testing a little more, venturing out a little farther, allowing determination to overcome fear, he is already a better swimmer than I will ever be. It is one of life’s greatest joys to be in awe of your own child.

I don’t know what it is about this age that has me in a perpetual state of near-tears. Many afternoons this summer, I dropped him off at the free, local playground program staffed by teenage volunteers. I’ve done literally that – dropped him off. I’ve pulled my car up, unlocked the doors and watched as he hauled his water jug and lunchbox up to his new group of friends. I couldn’t pinpoint why I had to swallow hard every time I did it, until it occurred to me: I’d never “dropped him off” anywhere as long as he’d lived.

I’d taken him to plenty of places, of course. I’d left him day after day at daycares, preschools, elementary school, and an endless array of summer camps. But I’d always walked him in. There is something about the physical hand-off, that moment where the responsibility for his safety transfers from me to whoever will teach him or care for him for the next few hours. But who was responsible for him in this new in-between? From my car door, up the alley and across the basketball court, before his lunchbox hit the picnic table and he waved hello to Ms. Katie, who was responsible for him?

He was.

More and more, he’s the one responsible for him, which is both thrilling and terrifying. Somewhere between 7 and 8 years old, we crossed an invisible threshold where suddenly he’s earning a new level of trust and independence. He’s playing outside in the backyard with the neighbor kids without adult supervision. He’s returning the cart to the front of the grocery store for me. He’s walking to and from the playground, he’s swimming in the ocean. I still watch him, because I can’t quite believe it. The careful way he looks for cars, the reassuring wave he gives me because, I would swear, he senses that I need it.

In a way, he’s pulling away from me. I feel it as all parents eventually feel it. All of a sudden, I have the power to embarrass him, which I somehow manage to do despite my best efforts not to. He wants more playdates and less family time. The eyes that used to light up at the idea of a board game now most often roll at the suggestion.

But once in a while, I get a moment like this. A moment in which he looks at the ocean and back at me. “Of course I will,” I tell him.

I stand and watch him. He bounces and dives. A wave crashes him into the sand, he gets back up, he throws me a thumbs-up. In a matter of minutes, his shoulders relax from caution to confidence. He’s tested a little more, he’s ventured out a little farther, and his determination has, once again, overcome his fear.

He glances back at me and I point at my chair. “You’ve got this; I’ll be over there,” I think at him.

He nods and waves back.

My first foster son was three years old at the time and he’d been in our home for just a few weeks. In those weeks, I’d noticed that he couldn’t identify or recall what I considered to be fairly typical three-year-old knowledge.

He didn’t seem to know that cows went “moo” and pigs went “oink.” He couldn’t remember that my car was blue or the grass was green. If I asked him to run upstairs and grab two books, he’d come back down with five.

One morning, we sat together on the living room floor, flipping through a baby book filled with simple pictures illustrated in clear, bright colors. We’d talk about the yellow duck and how ducks “quack”; but a few seconds later, he couldn’t identify the duck or its quacking, let alone what color it was.

“Red? Blue? Orange? A color?” he’d guess, flashing a charming grin at me.

I smiled back at him, briefly considering the possibility that he was just messing with me, before opening my arms so he could crawl onto my lap. And that’s when I felt the beating of his heart, so hard and so fast that I instinctively put my hand over his chest, as if to keep it from bursting altogether.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know his colors or his animals or the difference between two and five. It was that he couldn’t hear me over the internal roar of his own fear. He didn’t look afraid, he didn’t act afraid, but he was terrified. He was stuck in a perpetual adrenaline-pumping fight-or-flight mode that he couldn’t escape; he couldn’t pinpoint a specific danger but he knew it was there.

Every child who has entered foster care has been traumatized. Removal from biological parents is – always – traumatizing. Even if the parents are abusive, and even if the parents are neglectful. Even if it’s the parent’s fault. Even if the parent breaks the law. Even if anything. Removal causes trauma.

And trauma on a young, developing brain changes the chemistry of that brain. Forever.

These are the things that foster parents learn during the hours of training we take in order to become licensed and in order to keep our licenses current each year. We’ve been trained to watch for triggers, to anticipate the need to de-escalate a child before we reach the point where de-escalation is nearly impossible. We’ve learned to swap out time-outs for time-ins and we’ve learned how to bond with a child by mirroring their play. We’ve created calming bins full of balls to squeeze and paper to tear and pillows to punch.

But the thing is? None of that takes the trauma away; it simply makes day-to-day life more manageable.

After children began being separated from their families at the border, a friend of a friend defended the policy on social media by arguing that, “It’s no worse than what kids in foster care experience.”

I suppose we could debate that point, but trauma is not a contest. Trauma should not be minimized, nor should the trauma of one child be used to defend the trauma of another.

Children who are traumatized bang their heads off of floors. They claw holes into walls. They shatter picture frames and walk through the glass. They lie and they steal. They wake up crying from their nightmares. They throw their shoes at you in the car. They stare at you with vacant eyes. They try to flip kitchen tables and pull over wooden dressers. They internalize their fear and their pain until it becomes too big for their little bodies to contain.

When trauma goes unnoticed or untreated, for weeks or months or years, it doesn’t fade away. It gets worse. It’s a snowball rolling down a hill, collecting speed and heft as it goes.

We have decided, as a country, to support a foster care system that allows children to live in a family setting as a way to lessen their inevitable trauma. We have decided to support a system that exists not to separate families but to care for children temporarily, as we work to rebuild and reunify the family in a safe way.

Does it always work? No. Are children sometimes removed from their home when they really shouldn’t have been? Yes. Are some foster parents simply in it “for the money”? Yep.

Are there holes and flaws and inconsistencies within our system? More than I could ever count. Do our services fall epically short of what these kids need? Don’t even get me started.

But foster care does not exist to separate families. And it does not exist as a way to justify the fact that we inflicted trauma on thousands of children at our border with no thought as to how we will reunite them with their families.

As a toddler, Ryan would stand on the sidelines of the playground for upwards of an hour before he’d join in. As a preschooler, he’d sob at school drop-off time. My husband and I would look at each with a knowing glint in our eyes, the words hovering unspoken between us: “That’s our little introvert!”

As Ryan got older, though, and his personality really started to shine, we realized something. He wasn’t shy—he was cautious. He wasn’t wary of other kids or group settings; he just struggled with transitions. And other people didn’t drain his energy the way I found myself drained after a dinner party or a holiday gathering. Instead, once he became comfortable in a situation, he seemed to thrive off the energy of others.

Now, at nearly 8 years old—and as our only child—he craves the constant company of other kids. I’m in awe of the ease with which he makes friends and the value he places on maintaining those friendships. He would be most happy with weekends full of back-to-back playdates with his classmates, his soccer teammates or the kids who sometimes visit the house up the alley.

The problem? Me.

Read the rest of this post over at Lifehacker.

As a child who was aging out of the foster care system, Iannetta didn’t have the family support that so many college-bound high school graduates take for granted.

“That gift not only gave me some essentials, but it made me feel cared for and supported when all my fellow classmates were moving in with their parents helping them,” said Iannetta, who now serves on the Board of Directors of the Foster Care Alumni of America organization.

May is an exciting – but stressful – time of year for so many high school seniors. Graduation is approaching, college is right around the corner, and they’re largely getting ready to be on their own for the first time. It is both thrilling and terrifying for all teens, but for those who have spent their final years of childhood in the foster care system, the fear factor goes up a few notches.

CLICK TO READ THE REST ON GROWN AND FLOWN!

“What’s up with him today?” the relative asked me in a low voice.

“Oh, well, it’s Christmas,” I said. “He’s talked to his parents on the phone a couple of times, but it’s not the same as actually being with them. He’s missing his family.”

“Missing those people?” he scoffed. “Please. That kid has it made here.”

It wasn’t the first — or last — time I’d hear that somehow my foster children were lucky. Lucky to have landed in middle-class America and, in particular, with me and my husband and our son. Not only were they lucky but they should also recognize and appreciate just how lucky they were. But they knew — and I knew — that as children who had been torn from their biological families through absolutely no fault of their own, they were anything but lucky. They were not lucky to be living with uncertain futures, missing the only family they’d ever known.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST ON THE NEW YORK TIMES!

I got the first PTA email when my son was still weeks away from his first day of kindergarten. The subject line was, “We Have Open PTA Positions!” (Exclamation points are necessary to convey the proper amount of excitement.) The email went on to explain how crucial the PTA is to the students’ success before preemptively thanking me for my continued support. Because without me, we wouldn’t be able to provide so many fun activities to our students.

Before I knew it, I was trying to decide whether my skill set was better suited for the volunteer coordinator position (“This is a great way to get to know your extended Elementary School family!”) or the Book Fair Organizer (“You can spread a love of reading!”)

CLICK TO READ THE REST ON LIFEHACKER!

I was going to wrap up the red “No. 1 Big Brother” shirt in heart-themed wrapping paper. It would sit propped up on the cherry-colored tablecloth, among the oversized chocolate shark and heart-shaped lollipops I’d also bought him for Valentine’s Day. I already have a propensity for going overboard on holidays, but this – this – was going to be epic.

The timing would be perfect – I’d be one day past the 12-week mark of my pregnancy. When my belly started rounding out at just 7 weeks, though, we joked that it was possible Ryan would guess before we could wait long enough to tell him.

But when I went in for what my doctor called an “8-week dating ultrasound,” we found there was nothing to date. A growing gestational sac inside my uterus, complete with yolk sac for the “baby” to feed off of. “Baby,” not baby, because there wasn’t one. All the nausea I’d felt, the exhaustion that knocked me on my side by 5 p.m. every day, the aversion to Brussels sprouts and cravings for Honey Nut Cheerios, it was all for a baby that never even was.

The ultrasound tech was silent, and because this wasn’t my first pregnancy rodeo, I knew that wasn’t good. Well, the big empty uterus on the screen was a pretty solid indication that something was amiss, too.

“I thought I’d see more at this point…” I said, my sight glued to the screen to avoid the tech’s eyes. Not that I needed to worry too much about meeting a pair of eyes that were also avoiding mine.

“Yes, well… it’s still early…”

“Right,” I responded, even though I wanted to scream: “BULLSHIT! You know that’s bullshit and I know that’s bullshit. Why are we pretending it’s normal to see a big blob of nothing when I’m here because we’re supposed to be measuring something?”

Afterward, I wandered down an empty and seemingly endless hallway of quiet, fluorescent lights. As I walked, I took deep, even breaths. He won’t ever wear the shirt, deep breath in. Even if I get pregnant again, with an actual baby that can be measured, it will never fit him, slow breath out.

I sat down in a chair. I’d somehow made it to the other side of the hospital to get my blood drawn. This was so my doctor could have all the information possible for a diagnosis of “no baby,” I suppose. The nurse who was going to take my blood was blonde with an exotic-sounding name that was pretty enough for me to comment on but unusual enough that I forgot it just a few seconds later. I gave her my right arm because I know it has the better veins, and I marveled at how we can do this. How we can make small talk and recall vein quality even as we’re walking around pregnant but not actually pregnant.

My mom had just left town the day before. We’d gone shopping while she was visiting, and she’d bought the “baby” a new crib sheet. And a hooded bath towel. And a sleeper covered in the most adorable black and white hedgehogs. Hedgehogs, of all things. I had sprung for a gold-colored onesie with the word “Thankful” splashed across the front of it. The “baby” could wear it at Thanksgiving, we giggled.

As my blood poured out into vial after vial, I pictured the bursting plastic Target bag still sitting on my bedroom floor. The tags were all affixed, which was good because I’d be able to take it all back. I wondered how quickly I could do it. Get the bag, drive to the store, return it all. It shouldn’t take long. These things can be undone much quicker than they are done.

I was thinking all this at the same time I was joking with the nurse about whether I’d be able to produce a urine sample for her, because I just went after the ultrasound, but hey, I’m pregnant, so if I wait 5 minutes I’m sure I’ll have to go again! I didn’t throw up the air quotes around “pregnant,” even though I thought it would be kind of funny in that dark, nothing-about-this-is-funny sort of way.

That t-shirt, the red “No. 1 Big Brother” one … I bought it for Ryan the day I found out I was pregnant. Not this time, but last time. I’d been in a store just days before and saw it on the clearance rack. We’d been trying to get pregnant for a few months, and although I suspected I already was pregnant, buying it seemed like too big of a jinx on the whole thing. I stared at it for a while, and then I left it behind. As soon as that second line appeared on the home test, though, I rushed back to the store, worried it was already gone. But there it was – one left in his size.

Meant to be.

That pregnancy ended almost before it even began.

I now think it’s likely this shirt is less “meant to be” and more “cursed.” Sure, maybe this keeps happening because of pure bad luck. Or maybe the culprit is my advanced maternal age everyone keeps reminding me about. Or maybe it’s because I went back for that damn shirt. Actually, if I turn it around in my mind long enough, I can see that it’s a blessing to have this wretched shirt. It gives me something concrete to blame for my two lost babies. “Babies.”

During the 10th week, I have a third (and final) ultrasound that confirms the lack of “baby.” Before I take the pills that will rip the pregnancy from my body, I head to the store. I’m not there to return; I’m there to buy.

Into my basket goes a flashy red tablecloth decorated with pink Xs and Os. Valentine garland, because apparently that is a thing. I buy one of those little heart-shaped balloons on a stick that last way longer than any parent would like. A pack of whimsical monsters-in-love wall stickers that I know will make Ryan smile on the morning of what we refer to in my home as “The Day of Love.”

I buy a wooden sign that says “Love Each Moment,” and I hang it the minute I get home.

Because my heart may be aching and my body may feel broken, but my holiday spirit will not be crushed. Not by miscarriage or loss or a cursed size-7 T-shirt.

I am still a mother, and I can still make this an epic day.

(My monthly newsletter has more original essays like this, plus other random things I’m loving.)

After our son, Ryan, was born, my husband and I knew we would eventually become foster parents. We wanted to give another child—or children—the safety and security of the sort of stable family we’d been lucky enough to be born into. We knew that being the first among our family and friends to take the leap into fostering meant we had a pretty steep learning curve to overcome. We just didn’t know how steep until we were already climbing.

There are a handful of things in particular that I wish I’d known ahead of time.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST ON LIFEHACKER!