A moral dilemma.

You win. Someone else loses.

It's scholarship time in the Knitternall home, and each application has become a moral dilemma for our graduating senior.

"Why do you deserve this scholarship?" He looks at that question and thinks, "yeah, why do I?" Why is he more worthy than every other graduating senior who needs the money?

Our son does not have a competitive nature. He doesn't try to edge out everyone around him in pursuit of a shared objective. Instead, he worries that someone might want/need something more than he does.

In particular, the Crohn's scholarship has been a difficult one for him. "Everybody who has Crohn's deserves a scholarship," he said. "If I get it, that means someone else doesn't. And they may have worse symptoms, or their parents may not have health insurance, or they could be homeless."

We reminded him that scholarship committees see all of the applicants and their personal situations, then decide who gets how much. "It's a kind of gamesmanship - you're playing to the audience. The selection of the recipients is out of your hands." But that doesn't help. He worries, to the point that he doesn't want to apply at all. So I told him the scholarship is as much for us as him ... scholarship money is much needed in a family where medical expenses are overwhelming.

Our debate led to own moral dilemma. Why should our son be burdened by the financial cost of his disease in addition to the physical and emotional challenges he will take with him to college? Who is the beneficiary of these scholarships - our son or us? Do we ask him to be someone he isn't? And does that mean we're pushing him into ethical gray areas for our own financial benefit?

Well, yes we are.  Scholarships specifically benefit the individual paying for college, whether a self-funding student like I was or the family trying to squeeze tuition out of a carefully mapped budget that unexpectedly has to include medical expenditures.

After an evening of internal debate, I told our son to be true to himself. But that we would appreciate it if he would at least find a way to ask for the scholarship without crossing his moral standards.

Yesterday, our son wrote his personal essay for the Crohn's scholarship, in his own way. He wrote that he doesn't deserve the scholarship any more than any other graduating senior. He said good grades, a full plate of extracurricular and volunteer work, and good character don't differentiate him from most of the other applicants. And he wished all the families paying for Crohn's care could benefit because all of them, including his own parents, needed the help.

He didn't pontificate, exaggerate his accomplishments, brag about his honors, or try to make himself stand out in any way.

His essay likely won't result in winning the scholarship.

But he made me feel very humble ... and proud.

Redistricting inside the lines.

Consultants are everywhere. Before making a difficult (politically risky) decision, governing bodies bring in the objective expert, who researches and opines, then presents well supported recommendations that said governing bodies can then hold like a shield before constituents.

1. Consultants put together the smart-%$$ Dunwoody branding that it appears we'll have to live with until all parties feel they've gotten their money's worth.

2. Consultants have been guiding long-range planning for development of key city areas. Anyone who has been part of the sounding boards or surveys quickly figured out certain preferences by the consultants would make it into the recommendations, no matter what the survey responses might be. For example, residents said "no" to multi-storied multi-family residential development in the Dunwoody Village area. Behold, the mixed use concept advocated by the consultants in the concept stage looks like a done deal in the final recommendations. (My favorite argument: that residences should be part of the "city center." The city center is surrounded by residential neighborhoods.)

3. Consultants have told the DeKalb School Board that redistricting should include carving some neighborhoods within the city limits of Dunwoody and sending those children to schools in Chamblee. While the expected fire storm rages among elementary school parents who care much more about their children's K-5 experience than the high school that is FAR more important, this particular recommendation is just wrong. Hopefully, the Dunwoody Cluster Charter Schools effort will bring those neighborhoods back into the fold.

Strategic planning is an exhausting, somewhat surreal, and often ineffective process. Wading through everyone's opinions, trying to find consensus, putting a human face on statistics, denying facts because they don't fit someone's goals, trying to discern longrange implications of each decision, and often dismissing the resulting plan because a key decision maker decides it isn't the right direction: if you've ever been part of a strategic planning committee, you know how deeply frustrating the work can be. So I have a lot of empathy for the Dunwoody City Council, the DeKalb School Board, the Dunwoody Charter Cluster committee, and all the civic organizations I've served through the years.

There are so many strategic plans in the air right now it's hard to focus on the essentials, but focusing is imperative. Do we want multi-storied buildings looming over residential neighborhoods? Should parts of Dunwoody see their kids traveling to Chamblee for school? Will local schools actually use the freedoms and opportunities of a charter document or bow to the neverending pressure of the county administration to use its preferred curricula, textbooks, class structure, etc.? Can we get rid of Georgia's failing New Math curriculum like Fulton County and other school systems have already done? Which college (or this?) will my son choose and will he finish all of his scholarship applications in time? (Okay, that's a Knitternall family strategic plan.) How effective is a plan if there's no money to make it happen? And on and on and on.

I am grateful for people who tirelessly dig into the strategic planning process because it is an essential step in preparing for change of any kind. And I've worked with consultants who have been highly effective in guiding committees from free-for-all brainstorming to solid, well grounded goals and strategies.

Ten years from now, the political, commercial, residential, educational, and social landscape in Dunwoody will be dramatically different from what it is today.  All this strategic pain will be a memory, and new residents will have no clue how much work went into the quality of life we all enjoy.

At least, that's what I hope.

Knitting mistakes.

I love knitting. Really. Truly. By now, most people know I knit because I never stop knitting. In public. In the pew. In the car.

My craft has its share of knitwear that's truly visionary as well as stuff that looks like it exploded out of the acrylic yarn aisle at a long-ago-closed five-and-dime store.

And then there are the sublimely hilarious knitting projects. The ones that make me giggle. And remind me that knitting and insanity are indelibly intertwined.

Enjoy.

That's just bull.

The knitter's response to "Mom, I have to make a diorama for school."

That isn't photoshopped. Is it?

Tanks a lot.

iDesperate to own an iPhone?

Actually, it's that round metal part at the end that's cold ... not the part that's wearing a sweater.

Honey, your grandmother knitted it just for you. We'll just get a quick picture, send it to her, then hide it.

The bride's mother is a knitter. And this is the wedding of her dreams.

Nature is calling.

Dunwoody Patch, a new online news source for our community, has a charming slide show in today's edition featuring Dunwoody Nature Center. (I think we need to do some refurbishing of the cap art.) It's a timely reminder that outdoor fun and learning isn't confined to warm weather. As a matter of fact, there's a new Lunch & Learn series starting this week, nature classes for little ones begin shortly, a great family event about maple trees and maple syrup weekend after next, two school groups are coming to the park this month for field trips, a brigade of volunteers will work on trail maintenance and invasives over the coming weeks, and summer camp registration begins February 1 for members. In other words, nature doesn't live by warm temperatures alone. It's alive and dynamic every month of the year. And it's free.

The best cure for cabin fever is getting outdoors, in rain gear or heavy coats if needed. I walked over to Dunwoody Park this weekend with Scooter the Wonder Dog, who found a splendid array of scents to puzzle over and a few free-ranging dogs to check out (leashes, please!). While I enjoy our urban ambles, the park is a much quieter place to exercise, so I try to include it in most of my loops. (And since I just typed the word "walk," and Scooter is somewhat psychic about the prospect of an outing, I need to go get the leash.)

Come on, Scooter. Walk!

Resolution, schmesolution

I resolve not to make resolutions.

They're somewhat pointless (I'm going to do what I'm going to do, despite good intentions.)

They smack of "I don't like what/where I've been, so I'm going to do better." (I embrace the good and the bad because ... well, who's perfect?)

The ones that aren't narcississtic are too global to hold on to day by day. (Get more exercise, get organized, live more simply, finish the NY Times crossword without Google, rely less on food grown far away, do my part to help the homeless/improve living conditions in Haiti/change the local-national political scene).

So I'm not going to do it.

Instead, I welcome another year of opportunities to explore, fail, change, browse, overreact, forget, make peace, make trouble, nurture, guide, learn, laugh, love, and live.

Life comes one day at a time.

Happy New Day.

A Mother's Charge to the New Eagle Scout

Adam and his Troop 764 Scoutmasters: Brian LaRose (current), Phil Cohen, Steve Barton, and Bob Smallwood (the troop's founding Scoutmaster)

Adam and his dad, both Eagle Scouts.

Our son's Eagle Court of Honor was this past weekend, held in the Chapel of St. Luke's Presbyterian Church. We were humbled by the many friends and family who traveled long distances and shared their busy weekends with us.

Adam asked me to close the ceremony with the Mother's Charge, which traditionally means poetry and tears. As an inherent stoic, I really couldn't decide what I'd say, right up to the night before the event. But, during chats with visiting friends, I finally figured it out.

And here it is ...

Seventy miles.

The Boy Scout Hiking Merit Badge requires five hikes of 10 continuous miles each.

Plus one hike of 20 continuous miles.

You had to choose hiking trails close to Atlanta. No high adventure because they’re too remote. Crohn’s meant staying close to help if needed.

I volunteered to walk those seventy miles with you. As your mom, I needed to watch over you since some of the hikes came between flare-ups.

I also wanted this time together with you, before you decided that time with me wasn’t nearly as fun as time with friends.

So we hiked. On the Big Creek Greenway, over Kennesaw Mountain, around Dunwoody, through Atlanta, and along the Cherokee Trail at Stone Mountain. Sometimes you listened to your ipod. Sometimes we walked together in silence. Most often, we talked.

Because of Crohn’s, you have to work harder to get what you want. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel good or are weak because of your meds or can’t sleep because of a flare-up. You still have to keep moving.

You decided you wanted to be an Eagle Scout just like your Dad when you were a Tiger Scout. And you followed through, until all that lay between you and beginning your Eagle Project was seventy miles.

You never balked. You put one foot in front of the other and finished what you began.

And now you’ve reached your goal. You’ve taken the road less traveled and achieved something rare and valuable.

Adam, my charge to you is to keep moving. Never balk because something you want is hard. Life is filled with obstacles, both expected and unexpected.

You’re an Eagle Scout. And I am very proud of you.

Mailbox Brigade.

My neighbors Sara, Allison, Tara, Lisa, and Sue and I put together 29 mailbox swags as part of the Mailbox Brigade benefiting Children's Healthcare of Atlanta. None of us claims to be  particularly gifted with floral arrangements. We made up for our lack of expertise with a lot of enthusiasm. A little design 101, bunches of evergreens and holly berries, a huge red or blue bow for each swag, and we had 29 lovely packages to deliver to mailboxes in our neighborhood.

My frigid, messy garage became the work site. At least we were out of the wind.

Mixing fir, magnolia, boxwood, and holly takes its toll on the hands. Note Allison is wearing gloves. I didn't. Guess whose hands AREN'T cut and covered with sap.

Clumps of greens bound together and ready for installation. They don't look like much here, but check out the finished product ...

 

 

The Knitternall mailbox looks really nice. The little card says we belong to the Community Friends supporting CHOA.