Author: Holly Crawshaw

3 Ways to Survive the Back to School Season

You’re never prepared for it – for that moment on your weekly (tri-weekly) trip to Target when the water toys and outdoor furniture sets are corralled into the clearance section and replaced by mountains of marbleized composition notebooks and rows of calculators that cost more than my smart phone. Like Christmas, birthdays, and well. . . like most things milestone-related, the back-to-school season seems to arrive more and more quickly each year. And with it. . . My emotions? Mixed. My schedule? Threatened. My budget? On the Endangered Species List. Ready or not, it always comes. But before we...

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One Simple Way to Decrease Your Chances of Raising a Brat

My husband and I just got back from taking our girls to Hilton Head, South Carolina for a long weekend. There were bike-riding adventures, hot dogs on the beach, and early bedtimes (thank you, swimming, for exhausting my children like no other activity) – a great time was had by all. However. It was not all sunshine and giggles. The whining. All the whining. The pleading. The needs. ALL THE NEEDS EVER IN THE WORLD. What is it about staying in close-quarters that brings out the neediness in people? The most impatience in people? The most downright SQUALORYLY nature...

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When Making a Big Deal Out of Little Things Is a Good Idea

Okay, I admit it. I sometimes often overdo things. If I find a shirt I love that fits well, I’ve been known to buy it in two colors. If it’s on sale? … I mean, how many colors are there? Is there a price break for buying in bulk? A “cheat” meal has been known to turn into a “might-as-well-make-it-a-whole-weekend-of-fried-food” extravaganza. And my Christmas-decorating aesthetic? I think my mom used the term, “Polar Express Manic.” I overdo it. I know this. And while this personality has left me overcommitted, overspent, and just plain over it . . . there...

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Sunday Rules

On Sundays when I was growing up, it didn’t matter if we were facing imminent danger or in the throes of a natural disaster, we were going to church. Literally, I can’t remember not hearing my mom’s alarm clock go off every Sunday morning at 8:00am—because, of course, church was always preceded by a solid hour of Sunday School (bless those volunteers). My parents could have had World War III with each other on Saturday night. I could have had the measles. My brother could have gotten kidnapped. There was never any question . . . IT WAS SUNDAY...

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What Story Do We Tell?

There’s a lot of my story that I never want my kids to find out. Like the time I cheated on a math test in third grade. I chose to sit out recess for a week just so my teacher wouldn’t call my parents. Or the time I tied sheets together with my friend and “practiced” sneaking out my upstairs window in the middle of the day. (Sidebar: that’s not a super effective method. The sheets came untied when I was halfway down and it’s a miracle I didn’t wind up in the hospital.) Or, only slightly more traumatic,...

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