Just call me the lobster--I'll be fine with it Ashleigh Baker

You know that part of Peter Pan where the Indians sing, “What makes the red man red?” (“Alli-alli-bomba! Alli-alli-bomba!”)

(Clearly, I have toddler boys. I’m not ashamed of my Disney lyrical knowledge.)

I believe I’ve found the answer.

Three hours (only three measly hours, people!) of un-sunscreened sand castle building will make for a red man. Or woman.

Woe is the mother who takes her children to the beach as usual, but this time, forgets her sunscreen, and is much too desirous of a wee bit of sun-kissing to wear the 60 SPF she puts on her children. No, she thinks to herself, it’s cloudy enough and we won’t be staying long today.

Again, woe upon her. The sun shows no mercy and is not content to gently kiss her oh-so-fair-shoulders and the tip of her little nose, but instead it will EAT HER ALIVE… and get a good laugh out of the whole thing when her toddler puts his 60 SPF-ed hands on her back, and then his arms around her shoulders, and she is thus proclaimed as “MOMMY!” to everyone who sees (and thinks they have to comment on) the burn. Because nothing shouts mommyhood quite like five tiny white finger prints on otherwise tomato red skin.

What baffles me is why the entire top half of my body could be needing salve and bandaging and yet the bottom half (the part that’s uncovered, at least) is still as pale as the puffy white clouds that fooled me into thinking I’d be okay without sunscreen. How exactly does THAT work, I ask you? I haven’t had tan legs since the summer I got married, and even that was just a tinge of color and might have had some help from Neutrogena. I’m thinking perhaps my legs were made with built-in SPF. Perhaps they should share with my shoulders.

And also? The part that makes me really upset is when I realized, whilst standing in the checkout line with aloe vera last evening, that we’re going to be in a prime nearby vacationing spot this weekend and nothing shouts “TOURIST!” like a really bad sunburn and white legs in a sundress. I’m thinking a sign around my neck that says “I LIVE here!!” might do the trick. It might also distract from All The Redness, dontcha think?

But, ANYway. We’ve been so busy with all the sand castle building and pool going and such that I’ve just about plumb forgot this here ol’ blog. Okay, not really. Not at all, actually. I glance at my lonely laptop about five times a day and cast a small wave at her and all the active online people she houses.

Really, though, how many times do you want me to tell you about the three year old who dives and rolls in the smallish waves, then runs from the big ones, screaming “Jasmine! Jasmine!” despite the fact that we neither know anyone named Jasmine, nor has he ever seen any movies with characters of that name. (Again, I have toddler BOYS. Not girls.)

Perhaps the waves are all named Jasmine? I dunno, but I’m telling you, the whole beach is probably wondering along with me. The child has some lungs on him, and they get even more effective when he’s overcome with excitement.

I’m sure the rest of the beach go-ers are also probably wondering if I need a lesson on the dangers of skin cancer. Or at least some gift certificates to the tanning salon for the benefit of the white legs. Just know that if you’re at the beach in San Diego and see a girl with a small white hand print on her left shoulder surrounded by skin that matches her red tankini top? You might want to ask if she forgot her sunscreen.

Please tell me I’m not the only person with an early summer burn. Or who has white kid prints. Or maybe you should just tell me the name of your favorite self-tanner.