Sunscreen Now Official Instrument of Torture for American Spies

Notice the sunscreen smear (& Wacky Wednesday hair)

She screams. She wriggles her body, furiously wresting her shoulders from my grasp. "Stop! You're hurting me! Mooooom. Noooo!"

What is this instrument of torture I'm inflicting on my innocent child?

Sunblock. Or are we supposed to call it sunscreen these days? I can't keep up.


I can barely keep up with the tiny creature whose weight just barely qualifies her to sit in a booster seat (under New York law) to slather on the stuff that makes her scream and flail as if I was attacking her with lye.

If she wasn't blond-haired and blue-eyed, I might give up. OK, no I wouldn't. I remember the summer days spent feeling as though my t-shirt was loaded down with nails, the days after spent peeling long slices of deadened skin from shoulders, arms, legs.

If there's anything I can do to keep her from the same fate, I'll do it. And so sunscreen it is. While she moves her face so quickly to avoid the white stuff that I can't help but get it into her eyes.

"Hold still," I demand.

"But it's in my eyes!" she answers back.

"Hold still, and I would be able to avoid your eyes!" I remind her.

"But it's in my eyes!" she screams, her voice becoming shrill and desperate.

I'm surprised you can't hear her all the way in Jeffersonville. I wonder what the cops would write on the report. Abused her kid by caring too much? Actually tried to prevent skin cancer? Scandalous! How could she!?

I'll tell you how -- with a lot of screaming. And maybe a little in the eye.

OK parents, give me your best sunscreen tips -- there has to be a better way!


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