Oh no. I think I 'm headed for melanoma. At the very least, I seem to have a very high risk for developing the disease, thanks to my once-stubborn pursuit of a silly tan.

Think about this:

A review of seven different studies concludes that using a tanning bed under the age of 35 -- I'm so guilty -- can increase the risk of melanoma by 75 percent. Even those who have ever used indoor tanning were 15 percent more likely to develop the disease.

We're talking the deadliest form of skin cancer here. So deadly some experts are recommending strong measures to restrict the use of tanning beds by young people. Adults should be discouraged from tanning, some say, but access should be limited for those under the age of 18.

New Jersey already has regulations in place -- those under 14 are banned from tanning salons and anyone between 14 and 18 must have parental consent.

If I could turn back time, I would listen to my grandma. She told me the sun -- and tanning beds too -- were no good. But I was young. And I didn't care.

Now I'm older. And I care. But it may be too late. It seems this could be one lesson I learn the hard way.

While sitting in the lobby of my hospital's MRI center on Friday -- time for the annual breast MRI -- I found myself a bit irritated by an appointment mix-up that kept me waiting much too long for a procedure that in and of itself is no real treat.

As I waited to bare my breasts and dangle them through square cut-outs on an MRI table, I flipped through a few ancient magazines -- why are lobby offerings so old? -- and as is usually the case when I read just about any publication, out jumped some cancer news.

So maybe the wait was worth it. Without it, I wouldn't have found this enlightening bit of information, this thought for today.

Now I warn you -- this item I am about to share comes from an October 2005 issue of Parenting magazine, so it's a bit outdated. But it still holds some truth. And if you remember nothing else from this message, I hope you'll take to heart this one lesson -- women tend to overestimate their chances of developing breast cancer.

Think about this:

• 46%: What women estimate is their lifetime risk of getting breast cancer
• 13%: Their actual risk

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

I ran on my treadmill today while listening to a song by the band Green Day. I have always liked the song -- Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life) -- but I like it more at this moment in my life than ever before because it speaks about looking back on the past in light of unexpected journeys -- and because my unexpected journey with breast cancer makes me look at everything differently. And when I look back at my life one day, I want to say that I had the time of my life. And that's why I like this song. And that's why I share it here today. Because I hope that in the end, we all can look back with the crystal clear knowledge that we had the time of our lives.

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth it was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

Joey has a hard time staying in bed when we put him down for the night. When we ask him why he continually gets up, he tells us that he wants to be with us -- mommy and daddy --  and that he wants to watch TV and that he's just not tired. He is five years old. And he will try anything to coax us into allowing him to stay up just a little bit longer. Lately, he's been asking serious questions he knows will take some time to answer -- like how exactly does a light bulb work? And how does lightening get in the air? And how do you build a house? Last night, his questions followed a medical path -- a cancer path really.