Wasn't public school supposed to save them?

Some critics of homeschooling like to argue that parents who teach their own children should somehow be regulated, in part to make sure they are not using homeschooling as an excuse to abuse their children away from the public eye.

That argument would be solid if it wasn't so absurd. Read on, and you'll see what I mean.

A Florida couple is in the news following allegations of child abuse of twin 10-year-olds adopted in 2009. The children first lived with the Jorge and Carmen Barahona as foster children. Nubia Barahona was found dead in her father's truck on Valentine's Day. Her brother Victor was in the front seat still alive but severely burned over much of his body by a caustic substance.

According to police reports, Nubia and Victor were routinely tied up and kept in a bathroom. Both were beaten from time to time, and food was withheld.

Both children attended public school where teachers at various times reported the girl was hoarding food or had admitted her mother beat her or that both children appeared unkempt.

Those reports fell on deaf ears. They could not be substantiated enough to warrant removing the kids from their home.

According to the 2/28/11 edition of the Miami-Herald, Christine Lopez-Acevedo, a former attorney for the Guardian ad-litem Program, recited mostly by memory from official child welfare records: Nubia telling a teacher she was going to be beaten with footwear; Nubia locking herself in a bathroom and crying hysterically at the thought of her mother being called to the school; Nubia promising to behave better if a principal promised never again to call her mother.

The records were readily available in 2009 when a Miami judge approved the adoption of Nubia and her twin brother Victor by foster parents Jorge and Carmen Barahona.

The story continues further down:

At the second meeting of a panel charged with determining how numerous efforts to save Nubia fell so tragically short, speakers said the girl demonstrated a distinct fear of her then-foster mother as far back as kindergarten.

At a 2007 court hearing recounted by Lopez-Acevedo, Nubia’s Royal Palm Elementary kindergarten teacher described the day Nubia wet her pants at school. Thinking it no big deal, the teacher told Nubia she would call Carmen Barahona to have her bring a change of clothes.

“Mama is going to hit me with a chancleta [a type of sandal] on the bottom of my feet,’’ the teacher testified. Nubia then locked herself in a bathroom and cried hysterically, said Lopez-Acevedo, who wept herself when relating the episode.

The principal at another school, Blue Lakes Elementary, also testified that Nubia was fearful of Carmen – so fearful that she once promised she would never fall asleep in class again if the school would refrain from calling home to complain about her. The principal said a colleague from the twins’ previous school suggested “something was not right’’ with the twins, and that school workers should keep an eye on them, Lopez-Acevedo said.

They did. All told, three times between 2006 and 2010, Blue Lakes Elementary employees called the state’s child-abuse hotline with concerns that Nubia had been brought to school dirty, foul-smelling and unkempt. And that Nubia hoarded food and complained constantly that she was hungry.

Yet none of this information was provided to Vanessa Archer, the psychologist charged with evaluating the Barahonas’ fitness to adopt the twins, who had been in their care as foster children. The result: what foster care administrators have called a “glowing’’ evaluation of the couple, which smoothed the way for the Barahonas to adopt.

“There was alarming information from the school,’’ said Roberto Martinez, a former U.S. attorney for Southern Florida who is part of the three-member panel determining what went wrong.

SCHOOL OFFICIALS DID THEIR JOB BUT THEIR CONCERNS NEVER MADE IT TO THE PROPER AUTHORITIES.

Now do you see why the abuse argument of the anti-homeschooling crowd is at best laughable and at worst a full and complete dismissal of logic?

People who want to abuse children are going to do it, no matter how tightly or loosely they are regulated. The Barahonas were regularly visited by child welfare workers, they were reported numerous times by school officials, and they STILL got to adopt Nubia and Victor. They STILL managed to carry out systemic and horrific abuse.

Going to public school did not save Nubia or Victor Barahona.

The next time some windbag pushes for regulation of homeschoolers on the grounds that parents who teach their own children are more likely to be secretly abusive, the story of Nubia and Victor Barahona ought to be placed front and center as refutation.

This is the second 'blog post I've written on this subject in the past year or so. The other story involved Chandler Grafner of Colorado who also attended public school and who was also reported by his teachers after they witnessed suspicious behaviors and remarks consistent with a child who was being abused. As in the Barahona case, help came too late and Chandler Grafner died from starvation. He was just seven years old.

Beauty for ashes

Regret is universally regarded as one of the worst things with which to live. It fairly screams failure, missed opportunities, wasted time, unrequited love, lack of courage -- all the things that leave a person feeling somehow slightly incomplete.

Interestingly, if regret is acknowledged and examined it can also transform us in ways we didn't think possible.

That's right. Regret can lead to redemption. The catch is that we have to be willing to own the misstep, the lost opportunity, the failure to act, and to figure out what we might do differently next time.

If we're blessed enough to get a second chance, we have an awesome chance to bless someone else and that, in turn, takes away some of regret's sting.

I was talking with my children's piano teacher today. She's worked with my kids for two years now and her policy has always been that students come to her house for their lessons.

In our case, she comes to us. We pay her a little extra for her gasoline, but friends who know me and know about this arrangement have been miffed when they've requested a similar setup and have been told no.

On this day, I felt obligated to tell her that while it used to be imperative that she come to us because when we started I had two very little, very energetic boys who would've been hard to corral in her nice, neat home for an hour while their older sisters took a lesson, now everyone was older and likely more manageable. My oldest son, in fact, has recently been added to her student roster, so now it's just his little brother who needs tending. I told her I knew her arrangement with us was unorthodox in that it deviated from her usual practice and that I was willing to pack everyone up to come to her if need be. (She's an awesome teacher, and while it would be a chore to get everyone up and dressed and going, I'd do it.)

That's when she told me why she really made the exception for us and, no, it didn't have anything to do with hosting rowdy little boys in her nice, neat house.

It's a classic story of regret.

"Several years ago," she said, "I had a mother call me whose son wanted to take lessons. He was eight years old and she told me he had Asperger's Syndrome (high-functioning autism) but that he really wanted to learn the piano. So, like I did for other students, I had them come to my house. After a few lessons he had to quit. He suffered from a lot of fear and anxiety about leaving his house and he kept saying he needed to be home."

She said the day I contacted her about lessons for my girls and told her upfront that my oldest has Asperger's Syndrome a light bulb went on in her mind. "I suddenly remembered that boy and thought about how he might be playing the piano with me today if only I'd agreed to come to his house," she explained. "That's why, not knowing how Asperger's affects different kids differently, I made an exception and came to you. I hated to think of another child missing a chance to learn the piano."

Her regret over one lost student compelled her to bless another, and our family has benefited tremendously.

I could write a book about the regrets in my own life that I've taken and turned into something useful and positive. One of them has to do with friends lost and found.

Years ago when I was working for the daily college newspaper I got to know a guy who covered sports and used to do his work at night. His name was Brian and he sat at the computer next to mine. While I edited copy, he wrote his stories for the next day's edition. He smoked -- a habit that annoyed me to the point of finally telling him to either put out the cigarette or be willing to eat it. He graciously complied. Sometimes he made snarky jokes about the people in the stories I was editing, or he'd read over my shoulder and comment about how I should rewrite this or rearrange that. He was friendly enough, though, so while he could be like the pesty fly at the picnic, he also ended up being a dear friend.

Time passed. I graduated, went on with my life, eventually got married, and had my first child. I kept up with Brian through another mutual friend of ours, so I knew that he, too, had married and was now a father.

When my oldest daughter was a toddler, Brian and I met our mutual friend one night for pizza and a reunion. It was fun to reminisce about the silly things we'd said, done, and worn many years before when we were in college and a bit full of ourselves. We shared pictures of our children and promised to stay in better touch.

I never saw Brian again. He shot and killed himself about two years later. A troubled marriage and eventual divorce proved to be too much.

When I heart the news, I was stunned and then I felt myself going under wave after wave of regret. Suicide is particularly devilish because it always leaves people with more questions than it answers. What if I'd really done my due diligence and stayed in touch? Would my friend have confided in me? Could I have somehow prevented this terrible, tragic outcome? Did I say everything I wanted to that night at the pizza place? Should there have been something more?

I struggled for a long time to make sense of Brian's death, but now after so many years I accept that I never really will. Every time September rolls around, I wonder how his two sons are doing and I think about our mutual friend who was, for all purposes, Brian's best friend and who was also caught off guard by the abrupt and permanent departure.

What could I learn from this, I kept asking. Something useful had to come out of something so awful, and I knew if I looked hard enough I'd find it.

Eventually I did. It came in the form of an opportunity to reconnect with a dear friend from my childhood whose adult years have been plagued by chronic illness and a retreat into near seclusion. After much thought and conversation with his family, I summoned the courage to call and reestablish a tie that has been broken for far too long.

He's never said so, but I hear tell from others in his family that our renewed friendship has been a blessing in his life. I know it's been a blessing to mine.

Regret can eat you alive by teasing you with things from the past you cannot change.

Why not gain the upper hand instead and use those same things to change the future?

A letter came from far away . . .

Awhile back, my family decided to participate in a project called Any Soldier that connects civilians directly with U.S. military personnel stationed overseas. The idea is to make sure that soldiers who may not get much (or any) mail from home get mail from those who appreciate their sacrifices.

Some of the soldiers have special requests. Others just like to get cards or letters.

Out of more than 1,000 soldiers who are signed up to be liaisons between their units and civilian supporters, we picked a name at random and read what the soldier and his men wanted most.

Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Snacks.
A dartboard set.

The girls and I went to the sporting goods store and picked out a dartboard set. We all went to Walmart and bought lots of snacks and my mom bought lots of coffee, creamer, sugar packets, and tea.

We packed five boxes in all and sent them off with the hope they'd arrive in Afghanistan intact. My girls both made several cards to include with the food and coffee, the idea being that there would be a card for every soldier in the chosen unit.

Today, my younger daughter got a letter in the mail postmarked Afghanistan. She said it was more exciting than getting a letter from someone famous, like the president.

(I'd explained to the kids that folks in the middle of a war might not have time to write back, so to get a letter at all is huge.)

The soldier who wrote to her is from North Carolina and he has a son her age. The tone of the letter is like that of any father to a child. It's poignant in its simplicity, paternal, kind, and not a little bit wistful.

He tells my daughter about the things his little boy likes to do and says if his son and my daughter could meet they'd probably get along real well.

He drew a smiley face near his signature.

As my daughter read the letter aloud to her own father, I couldn't help but note the irony -- a child of eight reading to her father about a child of eight whose father is far away in such a dangerous and unforgiving place. Both fathers are obviously proud of their children, but only one of them is able to show it in person.

Christians are taught how we were bought for a terrible price when Christ went to the cross. As Americans, we are also bought every time one of our men or women in uniform goes to the mat in the name of our country.

I want my children to understand -- and I do well to be reminded myself -- that behind every single one of those soldiers there's a story, a family, and a sacrifice either temporary or tragically permanent.

Somewhere in North Carolina tonight, a young boy who loves to read and play video games is going to bed without his dad to tuck him in.

The small, quiet sacrifices are often the greatest, and we are humbled by the price Major S. Williams' family has paid.

Moments to make a mother proud

I've got good kids.

No, really. I mean, they are really GOOD kids.

Sure, they squabble, they don't always cooperate or do as they're asked. But in spite of those unpleasant episodes, deep down they are really good kids. My older two are unfailingly helpful and often polite without being asked or reminded. My younger two are usually dependable when it comes to hauling groceries, helping their dad dig up the yard for planting, or vacuuming the floors (they love to operate the vacuum cleaner).

But sometimes, my kids really go above and beyond the call of duty and they leave me and my expectations for their ages and stages in the dust.

This week, it was my oldest son's turn to shine.

Our family was hit full force by some sort of nasty illness. As we worked to recover, some of us got better quicker than others. My 6-year-old was the first to rally.

As I lay on the couch trying to summon the energy to do anything -- after being up all night before with my youngest child and my dear dependent husband -- I watched my son happily playing nearby.

"Hey," I said. "I'm sure glad you're feeling better. Do you think you could help me out?"

He came over to me, put his little hand on my cheek and said, "Sure, Mom. What do you need?"

I asked him if he thought he could make me a peanut butter sandwich and peel me a clementine. My appetite was finally returning, but my body was just too tired to act on it.

"I can do that!" he exclaimed. "Stay there and I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, my little boy emerged from the kitchen with the sandwich and fruit in hand. "I put everything on a paper towel so you wouldn't have to wash a plate," he said. "I think I did a good job with the sandwich."

If I'd had any money on me, I'd have given him a tip.

Later, I heard him going up the stairs to ask his sisters, who were both still droopy in bed, if they needed anything. No one asked him to do this. Next, I heard him come back down, go into the kitchen, and then run water in the sink.

When I asked him what he was doing, he said his dad wanted some more iced tea. He was rinsing out Dad's glass before putting in the ice and tea. "His glass looked dirty so I am cleaning it out first," he said matter-of-factly.

Whose kid is this? Where did this little man, this little responsible, capable, self-directed, compassionate little man come from? How did I get so lucky?

This is the same child who my longtime 'blog readers may remember acted so rotten that he got his 5th birthday party cancelled. The same child who carved his name irreverently in my expensively painted and refurbished staircase. The same child whose peeing contest with a friend resulted in the replacement of a $200 mattress. The same child who, every time he was fussed at between the years of four and five told me he wished he could have a different mother. The same child who is single-handedly responsible for 80% of my gray hair.

He told me things would get better when he turned six. That was last November and amazingly enough, his prophesy has been spot on.

Amidst the temporary misery of illness and the subsequent swift recovery of us all, I remain struck by the vision of my son lovingly caring for his mother, his dad, and his siblings. If this is a hint of things to come, then all the grief, gray hair, and damaged furniture has been worth it.

How to say "goodbye" in Russian . . .

I always think I'm going to hear the sound of a freight train long before it actually barrels down upon me and wipes me out.

If today is any indication, it's time for me to rethink that assumption.

My mother and I took my children with us to try out a new tearoom not far from our house. The weather today was unseasonably warm, but here at Christmas - 3 days we were so full of the joy and anticipation that comes with this time of year we really didn't care.

As we walked in to the charmingly decorated building, we were greeted by a lady we've known casually from the Denneys restaurant across the highway. She'd been a waitress there for years and even though we'd not eaten at Denneys in recent months, we all recognized each other instantly.

She enthusiastically greeted us and gestured to a second woman who used to work for Denneys and now worked at the tearoom. It seemed as though there had been a mass exodus from the 24-breakfast joint, with these women exchanging the highway traveler and trucker crowd for a more refined environment in which to serve food.

Once we were seated, my mother asked the second woman, "Does Albina still work at Denneys?"

The woman, who was setting up a nearby table for a newly-seated customer, replied off-handedly, "No, she passed away awhile back."

Bam.

We were instantly pinned beneath the train and I could feel my oxygen beginning to seep away.

Albina Callaway had worked at Denneys as long as we've lived in our community and she was a favorite fixture of not just ours but many, many other regular customers who came in for coffee and pie or -- like my family often ordered -- a full-scale lunch complete with dessert.

What made Albina special to us was that she was from Russia, and my mother and I absolutely adore all things Russian.

Albina was no exception.

Tall and thin with dark hair and a wide smile, she spoke English with the deep, rich accent I heard in my dreams for weeks after we returned from two separate trips to the USSR back in the '80s.

I loved to hear her stories about her family back home, her experiences upon coming to America, her little girl Michelle.

She always took time out from serving customers and cleaning tables to chat with us, asking about my children and what they were doing. She knew we were homeschoolers and she often remarked on how well-behaved my kids were (even when the boys were climbing up the back of the booth or sliding up and down the bench seat).

If Albina happened to see our car pull in to the parking lot, she'd have our drinks on the table before we even hit the door. I always ordered water for my kids and for myself an iced tea.

Typical of the Russians we met on our trips, she always addressed my mother as "Mama," a term of endearment used with any grandmotherly woman whether they were related to you or not.

"Mama!" she would say to my mom, "What would you like today? Coffee, maybe, or tea?"

One day, not long after we'd become acquainted and my mother and I mentioned to Albina that we'd travelled to Russia years ago, I noticed her wearing a cross on a chain around her neck. I remembered her saying that her ancestors were Muslim Tartars -- the people who had swept across into Russia as part of Genghis Khan's Golden Horde in the 13th century.

I was curious about the cross necklace, so I asked her about it.

"Oh yes," she said, smiling. "I was born a Muslim but when I got older I learned about Jesus Christ and I converted to Christianity." I asked her if her parents, who still lived in Russia, were disappointed with her decision.

"Yes, at first," she said. "But I told them I could not go back to that other way of thinking."

Then there was Albina's little girl, Michelle. When we met Albina, Michelle was still very little and not yet in school. As each year passed, she never failed to mention how now Michelle was in kindergarten, now first grade, etc. She carried Michelle's picture in her ticket book and loved to talk about the cute things she was saying or doing or making.

Shortly before Christmas last year, we were in Denneys talking to Albina when something was said about everyone's plans for Christmas Day.

"Oh, I'll be working," she said, frowning. "I have to work and on that day I'll make extra, so it's good. It's good."

Albina was one of the hardest working women I guess I've ever known. Her husband, an American she'd met and married some years before moving to Texas, had health problems and worked a grueling schedule. Albina worked days, nights, overtime, extra time, holidays. She was pulling her own share of the load for the entire family, and sometimes it showed in her face. Her smile would be bright, but her eyes would look tired.

Learning that she would have to celebrate Christmas Day the night before so she could be with her daughter, my mother and I decided we wanted to do something nice for Albina so her Christmas Day wouldn't be simply work.

We decided to get her a gift.

We selected two presents -- a sundae-making set with the little glass dishes and all the ingredients she'd need to make treats with her little girl, and a toy for Michelle. My mother, who'd studied the Russian language at one point, made up a Christmas card with the greeting in Russian and we all signed it.

When Christmas Day came, we weren't scheduled to be at my in-laws for several hours so we bundled everyone up and headed to Denneys to present our gifts.

Albina was indeed there and she was very surprised to see us. She was even more surprised when we gave her our presents and she read the card. "It's Russian!" she exclaimed. "You wrote this in Russian! Oh my God! My God! It's in Russian!"

We didn't know it then, but that would be our only Christmas with our new and treasured friend.

I learned today that Albina, only 38 years old, died in late September from a rare genetic condition. Her parents came from Russia to be with her but she had already lapsed into a coma by the time they arrived. She was buried in the veteran's cemetery in Houston because her husband is a vet.

She leaves behind her parents, a brother, a husband, and little Michelle.
She also leaves behind a lot of customers who came and went from Denneys but who, like us, were touched in some lasting way by the tall, smiling Russian woman who served up our food with a hearty helping of joy.

I am trying to remember the last time I saw her, but I cannot. I didn't think I'd need to, so there is no concrete "last" day with Albina. Rather, I'm left with a collage of vague impressions, a handful of specifics, and guilt for staying away from the diner for so long.


Years ago, a friend who'd been with us on our first trip to the USSR gave me a cassette tape of a love song popular in that country at the time. It was performed by the famous Russian singer Alla Pugacheva and titled, "Million Roses" (Million Alyh Roz).

Million, million,
Million of red roses
From your window, from your window
From your window you can see
Who's in love, who's in love
Who's crazy in love with you
My whole life for you
I will turn into flowers

Albina was a lot like the man in this song who vows to fill the whole world with beautiful flowers for the one he loves.

She worked hard to fill the lives of those she cared about with friendship, joy, and love.

I found her cell-phone number listed on a public information website so I dialed it to see what would happen. Even though she's been gone three months now, her familiar accented voice still answers, so I left her a message.

Do svidaniya, Albina. Goodbye, Albina.

Ya budu skuchat' za toboy. We will miss you.