I bring it on myself.

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,

was a young mother who made her own Christmas cards.

For the past thirteen years, I've made our family Christmas cards. Yes, I am one of those mothers. What began as a sweet, sappy, form of entertainment for friends and family, has become a scratchy, irritating, noose around my neck.

I have been racking my brain, trying to figure out what to do this year for our card. No matter how hard I try, I'm coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg.

This Christmas card-mama began her career in 1997 - when our world took a nose dive. Having one of the worst years of our young lives, which included cancer, job loss, death, and the repercussions of divorce, it was almost comical. But, not really.

I thought it fitting that year to use the picture taken of us on Splash Mountain at Disneyland. All of us had a look of terror on our faces, mouths agape in mid-scream as we were hurtled off the highest drop. "May you be blessed with more ups than downs, this new year!" were the words inside the card.

One year I made the card look like a comfy patchwork quilt and added pictures of the children. The inside read, "Every good and perfect gift comes from the Father above."

And of course, there was the year our son Samuel was born. I dressed up my four children as the nativity scene. "For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given." stamped inside. You could say I piqued that year. My oldest daughter Meghan reminded me, "Mom, there's nowhere to go but downhill from that one."


I think she's right.