I remember the first day I came into contact with the physical manifestation of childhood trauma. 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…