|Notice the sunscreen smear (& Wacky Wednesday hair)|
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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