It does not look like the above sunny happy La Jolla mom when it is time for my kids to put on sunscreen. There are frowny faces. There are shrieks. But my grandfather lost half his nose to skin cancer, and I walk with a parasol with sunscreen in the fabric.
"Don't slather me!" says my daughter, 7. My son, 10, hides under the couch uncharacteristically being SUPER quiet, therefore LOUD and OBVIOUS, he must be thinking, Mom's dumb as a post before 8 AM, and glassessless, she can't possibly see my feet sticking out the other end of the couch.
When I haul him out by the foot saying, "You don't want to end up leather baggy like Mommy!" "You don't want to lose half your nose!" he splutters, "All your stories end badly."
"Just sit still, and let me get the backs of your ears," I say, "You're going to a pool party, honey. Intense sunlight. Reflected off the water." I grease him up; he complains that I'm messing up his hair, he whines like the dog when she sees the dog shampoo.