If there was a paycheck for applying sunscreen, I’d be rich. Like, retire-to-a-condo-in-Boca rich. Because let me tell you, no one — and I mean no one — works harder than a mom armed with SPF 50 and two wiggly kids who would rather do anything else than stand still for 30 seconds.
Every single beach trip, park outing, even a walk around the block, I’m basically running a full-scale lotion production line. “Arms up, face here, close your eyes, no stop licking it, I said close your eyes!” Meanwhile, Anthony’s already halfway across the yard shirtless, and Nico’s whining that he doesn’t need sunscreen because “I’m fast and the sun can’t catch me.” Please. The sun catches everyone, kid.
I love love love how these kids act like I’m torturing them when I’m literally saving their future dermatology bills. Anthony will squirm like I’m smearing hot sauce on him. Nico does this dramatic sigh like, “ugh, mom, do you have to?” Rex, of course, is zero help. He just laughs, sprays himself in 2.5 seconds, and then goes back to wrestling with the umbrella that hates him.
And don’t get me started on the reapplications. Sunscreen isn’t one-and-done, no matter how badly my kids want to believe it. Nope, it’s every couple of hours, like clockwork. Which means the second I sit down with a book, or maybe, God forbid, sip a cold drink, someone yells, “Mooooom, is it time again?” And suddenly I’m back in action, chasing sweaty bodies with a sticky bottle like a bounty hunter.
The worst part? No one ever appreciates it. Nobody thanks the sunscreen mom. You only get noticed when you don’t do it and someone comes home lobster-red. Then suddenly it’s, “Why didn’t you reapply?” Like excuse me, I did, but your child was too busy sprinting down the beach pretending to be a velociraptor.
And don’t even get me started on how gross I am after. By noon, my hands are coated in this weird mix of sand, lotion, and kid sweat. My hair has a greasy streak from where I rubbed it off their foreheads. And yes, I’ve accidentally sprayed myself in the eye more than once. My sunglasses basically live in SPF fog. Cute.
But here’s the truth: Miami moms should unionize. Sunscreen squad. Hazard pay included. We’re saving children one greasy squirt at a time, and honestly, we deserve benefits. PTO. Maybe a free margarita with every bottle purchased. Something!
Still, as much as I complain, I’ll keep doing it. Because I’d rather fight my little sun-phobic monsters than deal with the aftermath of sunburn. I’ve had one too many nights of aloe vera, tears, and “it hurts when I move” to know better.
So yeah, until the day someone starts cutting checks, I’ll keep showing up with my arsenal of sprays and lotions, running around like a sunscreen ninja. Miami heat may be brutal, but I’m more brutal with a bottle of Coppertone.
And maybe one day, when my kids are grown, they’ll look back and say, “Wow, mom really did keep us from crisping into bacon.” That’ll be my paycheck. Until then, I’ll take my payment in hugs, Goldfish crumbs, and maybe a moment of silence while the sunscreen dries.