I will never forget the day I found out I was going to become a mother. My feelings were a mixture of joy, elation and shock mixed with a little bit of apprehension. Knowing I wanted this baby more than anything in my life, but worried that somehow I would lack the parenting skills I needed to raise a child and not turn them into a raving, paranoid lunatic. I also knew I had a partner in crime--my husband. It took two to get us here, and I knew he would love this baby just as much as I did and try just as hard as I would to raise a happy, healthy, intelligent child, without imposing too many of our own shortcomings as this child grew.

Lauren was born and fulfilled all of our dreams of what having a baby would be like. She was this perfect, pink, bald-headed bundle of sweetness. She made it so easy that Jeff and I thought we must amazing parents and could not understand all these parents who complained about the difficulties of parenthood. Here was our first mistake--first, we only had one child, and second Lauren was an easy baby. No colic, slept through the night at six weeks, napped, cooed, ate well, no serious illnesses...we were blessed.

Ashtyn was born 2 years and 11 months after Lauren. Ashtyn was definitely a different baby. She was due the second week of August, she finally arrived by C-section on September 5, when I was into my 43rd week and I finally gave up the idea of natural childbirth. She had this amazing shock of jet black hair and when the doctor brought her out the doctor and the ER staff was giggling. I had given birth to a toddler--10 pounds, 2 ounces, 23 and 1/2 inches long--with her hair, she looked like a mini punk rocker screaming her lungs out. I remember my obstetrician saying, "Girl, you would not have wanted to birth that child naturally..." I remember looking around and in my spinal block induced haze, asking if there was another woman giving birth in the operating room, because that baby didn't look anything like me! Ashtyn did of course, look like her Daddy, with her thick black hair. So that made it ok.

Ash was different in so many ways from Lauren, as a baby. Poor sleeper, veracious appetite, never napped, cried if anyone but mommy held her--which all lasted until she was well over a year. By then I was fast approaching a level of insanity reserved only for those who have second baby syndrome. Second baby syndrome is what occurs when you're lulled into a false sense of being a good parent because the first baby is easy. The second baby comes along and you quickly realize that if this had been the first child, there would never have been a second child. Of course this is a self-diagnosed syndrome, but I'm pretty sure there is psychological term for it somewhere.

We took it one day at a time. With Ashtyn, Jeff was unable to help as much. The new business we'd opened up took a great deal of his attention and I was focused on trying to keep my sanity and possibly get a shower once a day, while I raised our two small daughters. I adored my family. Even through the sleeplessness and the feelings of inadequacy, I adored them all.

Over the next four years Jeff and I plowed through our days. Some good, some bad. Some really good and some really bad. By the time we moved our little family into a new four bedroom house in a subdivision with a pool, we were feeling mostly positive about our future.

Mostly positive...

We had some really tough times after we moved. I think a part of it was the added pressure Jeff felt to meet a higher mortgage payment, and I experienced severe isolation, after leaving behind friends and neighbors who had become like family. I felt truly alone.

One morning, while trying to get Lauren to kindergarten on time, I found the car battery to be dead. I panicked--normally I'd have gone across the street and asked Larry, our grandfatherly neighbor, for help. Well, Larry didn't live across the street anymore. All that was there now was an empty lot. I felt like we'd moved to a new planet instead of 8 miles down the road.

It was a long climb back from the darkness of this period. I remember crying in the closet so that no one would see how devastated I felt. I remember feeling so alone that I wasn't sure how I'd get through the days and nights. We were in the throes of a true marital crisis, and all my husband had to offer were platitudes.

Eventually, with much counseling, the light appeared at the end of the tunnel. It felt like we'd come through the perfect storm, capsized, then righted our vessel and were sailing for clear skies and a mostly sunny shore.

Then Jeff found a lump under his arm. He had been fatigued all summer, but we had also landscaped our yard and painted the interior of the house. Two big home improvement projects, two little kids, one crazy business...it all added up to feeling tired. But his "tired" worsened. So, he went to the doctor.

I will never forget that day. I was teaching at the preschool and it was our fall festival. I was manning the bounce house and expected a call from Jeff to tell me all was ok, just an infection and some anti-biotics would do the trick. My gut told me something else, but I pushed it deep down inside--like I did every time my gut tried to tell me to get ready for a roller coaster.

My friend Julie, was helping at the bounce house too. The call came and I had to go inside the building to hear. Julie said she had the bounce house and to go on ahead. So, I went inside to hear Jeff better. What I heard changed our lives--all our lives--Jeff's, mine, our children's, our friends, our families lives forever.

"The doctor feels there is a primary cancer somewhere, but he doesn't know where. I have to have a biopsy and then they'll know. I need to come see you."

We sat in the preschool parking lot in his Jeep staring at the notes he'd taken about what needed to be done. MRI's, CT Scans, biopsy...terms that have floated around our lives, but had never touched them. "A primary cancer somewhere..." lingered in our heads. We tried to figure out how the doctor could be wrong.

The biopsy was scheduled for October 31, Halloween. I could not have imagined a more appropriate day for the start of a horror story.

November 7, finally the doctors had cut, examined, re-examined, met and discussed. Jeff's surgeon called and wanted us to come to the office right away. Well, that couldn't be good. We arrived and took our place in the waiting room--a room filled with other anxious faces, and those faces who knew this visit was routine and were making grocery lists in their heads.

In the doctor's office, we tried to keep it light. Surely if we're laughing he won't be able to deliver bad news. That's just bad form.

"Mr. Melton, you have cancer. It's a metastatic melanoma and it has spread to all of your major organs. It is in your lymph nodes, liver, lungs...and it will kill you. You don't have much time and I suggest you go home, get your affairs in order and spend time with your family. You will die from this and probably in 6-9 months."

It took an hour before I could pull it together enough to leave the office without tears flooding my face. But we left eventually.

I remember the day I found out I was going to become a single mother. The fear, the anxiety, the anger, the gut-wrenching nausea....

One day at a time. It's a well-worn cliche`, but more true than any advice I've ever been given. And I've been given A LOT of advice since that day in November.

As most will know by now, Jeff died, like the surgeon said. But not without a fight and not without exhausting all the medical remedies known to help stage four melanoma.

I am a single mother now. It's just as exhilarating and happy as the day my girls were born. But it is exhausting and challenging, too. I love my daughters more every day. They are becoming these amazing people with spectacular lives ahead of them. I don't take credit for who they are...it is without a doubt that God is completely responsible for the wonders that are Lauren and Ashtyn.

My heart goes out to all the single parents--fathers and mothers. One day at a time--it holds so much truth. See the good, see the blessings and occasionally yell and scream at God. He's tough. He can take it--and He will always love you...to the moon and back.