My husband teases me a lot. Whenever we can’t be together because I’m traveling, or we don’t get that “alone” time due to the kids…he reminds me we’ve got “50 or 60 years… your whole life baby!” And he pulls me close and kisses me and lets me know just how long forever really is.

But on the morning of the health care reform vote in the House, I had to tell my son his music teacher passed away. And it got me to thinking that maybe, just maybe, we don’t have 50 or 60 more years. And maybe, just maybe, this could all end tomorrow.

My son took the news as any “almost” seven-year old would. He got upset, he teared up, he lamented that he didn’t get a turn in the last game she played with them in class. Apparently the beloved Miss Mary would “lose her voice” as she sang to the kids…and they would eventually discover it in her pocket. My little guy was upset he’d never get his turn to find her voice.

I was upset for him. And I held him close and asked if he’d like to play the teacher’s fun game at home. He quickly became distracted with a toy and ran off to play, while I sat there…feeling empty and worrisome over all the reasons any one of us might not get “our turn” at whatever game was next.

I’m the first to admit I worry. I worry for my family, of course. But also for my friends spread far and wide across the world. And I’m also the first to admit I’d much rather be in control. I want my son to get another turn finding Miss Mary’s voice. I want to make sure my husband gets the 50 or 60 years he’s anticipating with me. I want my children to know that yes, everything really does turn out ok.

But when you have to explain cancer to a little boy, and explain why he should hug his classmates a little tighter on Monday…it’s hard. Actually, it’s beyond hard. It’s like taking a little bit of innocence and crushing it under your adult foot.

There are no guarantees. Nothing is certain. It’s the worst and most important lesson to teach a child.

My son knew. He understood. And much like his mother he quickly put it out of his head and moved on to something that made him happy. Denial? Maybe. Coping? Sure. I don’t expect a seven-year old to face death like his mother…wondering over when it’s her turn, anxious for test results from yet another doctor trip. Trying to not make mountains out of mole hills.

He turns seven on Wednesday. Not much of a “little” boy anymore and ready to hear a lot of these truths I so desperately wish he didn’t need to know. But that seven-year old, that very night, spilled the contents of his “possibles” box onto my bed.

With love and care he told me about each stone. Each coin. Each treasure. How he would one day find more. How he would one day discover treasures no one has ever seen. How he would one day have an even BIGGER box of “possibles.”

And with all those “possibles” in my heart I tell him anyway of the truths we face. I tell him with a heavy heart and a big hug. Knowing that with the truth of the unexpected, and of life…he would be better for it in the end. Hoping that with the knowledge he will find HIS voice, and move forward as his father and I do…hoping for many, many years of being together, and tons upon tons of love.