Time to Get the Red Out

The Shumways welcomed the summer over Memorial Day weekend the same way we always do: with a sunburn.

It never fails. The summer sun appears, the kids head outside and by the end of the day they’re grimacing as they peel their T-shirts off. We’ll put them in cool baking soda-filled baths, slather on the aloe and turn the fans on full blast but as anyone who’s ever had a sunburn knows, the only real remedy is time.

And until that time is up, my kids are moaning and I feel terrible.

I’m of Irish and Scottish descent and thus have no shortage of freckles on my fair, pale skin; my husband Andy, on the other hand, has a savage tan after about five minutes outside. As luck would have it, the boys favor my side of the family and therefore need to be sufficiently protected in an extreme SPF-kind-of-way.

Last weekend Quinn got fried and it was Ben’s turn at the neighborhood pool party this Sunday. Epic fail for Mom.

It’s not that I don’t put sunscreen on the kids…it’s just that I’m terrible at application. I’m known for this, actually; while I excel at certain things like growing orchids and making risotto, I fall short when it comes to protecting against a sunburn. I don’t put it on evenly, often forget important body parts and never remember to reapply. I can’t be trusted and I openly admit it. It’s just one of my shortcomings.

When Andy and I went to Bermuda years ago, we fell asleep under an umbrella on the beach. While we thought we were safe in the shade, we had forgotten that the reflection of the sun on the sand can turn your skin a deep shade of pink. Although this was a common oversight, the fact that Andy had a lobster red back (save for a single white hand mark across his shoulder) was cause for a very cranky husband. As you can imagine, I still haven’t lived that one down.

I think back to the high school Alex who fought genetics in her quest for bronze-hood. My sisters and I would pour baby oil on our freckled skin and lay out on a silver mylar blanket during “PTH” (that’s “prime tanning hours,” or the hours between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m.) while we sweat bullets. And if that weren’t enough, we would climb out our parents’ second floor bedroom window to lay on said tin foil blanket atop the roof of the garage because apparently, being 12 feet closer to the sun was the difference between getting moderately tan and getting really, really tan.

Most of the wrinkles on my face can be directly traced back to that time. Oh, the horror.

With a long summer ahead of us, I realize that I’ll have to step up my game. Baseball hats and SPF 50 are my best bet, and I currently have two bottles of Coppertone Kids in my car. I’m hoping that if I always have some with me then I’ll have no excuse not to reapply and the Aloe won’t have to make another appearance until next spring.

But just in case, my fellow parents, if you see a Shumway kid poolside or on a baseball field, don’t be shy: feel free to attack any one of us with a bottle of sunscreen and smear away. This hapless SPF-challenged Mom thanks you in advance.