I never tire of cherishing the moment. Sometimes I get busy and distracted and caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, but I always come back to the simple appreciation of time. There's no stopping it -- time -- and there's no telling how my days will unfold as the seconds and minutes and hours tick by, so I try to live in the present with every breath I take.

Cancer taught me this lesson -- this realization that time is not a guarantee, this deep-down feeling that I must soak up every experience that faces me.

Each night when my husband and I check on our sleeping boys, we sigh with amazement and one of us religiously says something like, Wow, they are so great. We never want to lose sight of the joy these sometimes-challenging little people share with us. And so we watch them in their most peaceful moments, while emotion fills our heads and hearts.

My husband has lost sight of his father -- literally. He died eight years ago today and while John can no longer see the man who passed away suddenly, without warning, and at a much-too-young age, his memories are still vivid. It's the simple things he didn't let slip by that are fresh in his mind today.

John wrote this essay for his mom and two brothers and sent it to them today, in honor of his dad whose life he hopes will never escape him.

And then there were four

I think about him just about every day. Most often it's a song that reminds me of Dad, such as Cats in the Cradle, or even one of his favorite TV shows, Quantum Leap. I was shopping in Publix the other day while a great mix of music played -- a song from Three Degree's came on, When Will I See You Again, and I stood there with a thousand-mile stare on my face as I thought of Dad. I work in a building that looks right across the street from the last residence hall I lived in, Yulee Hall -- the last dorm from which Dad muscled all my belongings. I see that building every day.

The passing of time doesn't fade the memories I have of him, the distance between the last one just increases. Just about this time eight years ago, I laid across Dad's chest well after he took is last breath. That memory is forever burned into my mind along side the memory I have of walking past Kristin's room that fateful day many years ago. Before that day there were six of us, then there were five, and now there are four. Every force of nature cannot stop that number from reaching zero, so I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all that I love you and think about you every day. Although death may be the worst gift of life, the gift of our kids will keep our numbers growing. It's unfortunate he didn't get to meet any of our kids and they didn't get to meet him -- but in a way they do. There is no doubt I share some of his qualities and those (hopefully only the good ones) affect the way I parent, the way I work, and the way I love.

I miss you, Dad.

Love, JP

On Saturday, my three-year-old threw a tantrum like never before. His daddy was departing for a football game, and he was not happy. He wanted him to stay home. He wanted to go with him. He just wanted him.

Danny clung to my husband with every ounce of energy he could muster, and his full-force fit came just as I peeled his strong little fingers off my husband's hand, allowing him to escape through the garage door. Danny tried to escape too so I locked and chained the door. He responded by hitting, banging, and beating the door and screaming with all his might. No amount of reasoning could penetrate this all-out display of emotion, so I carried Danny like a sack of kicking potatoes into his room where I plopped him into his bed. I told him he could come out of his room when he was ready to be nice, when he could say something other than, "Mommy, you are not my best friend anymore." It didn't take long for Danny to calm down. But he didn't come out of the room. He fell asleep. And then my house was quiet.

Enter my five-year-old who decided he wanted to watch TV while his brother napped. TV watching would have guaranteed me some down time, but I don't really prefer this mindless activity. Just as I was trying to think of something productive Joey and I could do together -- coloring, painting, reading -- Joey announced, "Let's put up our Christmas tree!" Now? In early November? Almost six weeks before we will actually celebrate this festive occasion? This request was not really consistent with my holiday planning schedule and my initial thought was to squash the idea -- because it didn't fit into my grand plan of putting up the tree just a few weeks before Christmas.

Planning is one of my strengths. And one of my weaknesses. Sometimes it's good. Sometimes it's too stifling, too rigid. So in the spirit of the my new after-cancer-worldview, characterized by the guiding principle of tomorrow is never a guarantee, I considered Joey's enthusiasm for holiday decorating and realized his plan would just give us more time to really enjoy the season that always makes me happy. So I told Joey, "Yes, we can put up our Christmas tree."

After a trip to the attic where I wrestled with all sorts of junk and managed to gather all the necessary Christmas parts, Joey and I spent hours perfecting our tree. And when Danny woke up, he joined us and happily placed ornament after ornament on the same exact tree branch. And when we were done, we admired our sparkling tree in all its glory. On a warm, sunny day in Florida. On November 11.

Tis the season.

I don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.

Michael Fumento is an author, journalist, and attorney specializing in science and health issues. And he has a lot to say about the Surgeon General's recent announcement that the second-hand smoke debate is over -- that second-hand smoke does in fact kill. Fumento believes that the debate is over means if you have your doubts, then keep them to yourself -- that the topic is not up for discussion any longer. But Fumento states that we should definitely have doubts -- about the effects of second-hand smoke and about what the Surgeon General has to say about it.