Don't you know I avoid the sun?

I had to get this out- it was keeping me awake.

When I was in college, aged 18, some of the girls in my dorm called me Vampira because a; I have white skin and dark hair, b; I took mostly afternoon classes and liked to sleep until noon (like many college freshmen, I’m sure) and c; because an admirer gave a dozen roses and I didn’t put them in fresh water, quickly wilting them. The girls joked I killed the roses because I was a vampire – didn’t I scuttle from class to class as swiftly as possible to avoid the sun?  Didn’t I wear hats all the time?  Wasn’t I an oddball with my anti-suntan thing?  This was seventeen years ago and I still avoid direct sunlight as if I were a vampire of sorts.  (Yikes, I was in college 17 years ago?  There were people born when I was in college who can now drive.  Wow.)

I am letting you know this snippet to make the following story understandable. Understandable as to why it’s worth a blog and understandable as to why it might keep me from sleeping, tired as I am. 

I went to see my parents over the weekend.  They have an indoor pool, so I am more than happy to swim in it with my boys – there is no need to fear the deadly rays of our life-giving star.  (Yes, I am aware of the contradiction here.  I think of the sun like red wine – it can be necessary, it can be beneficial, but too much on a consistent basis can do all kinds of damage.)  So I was in the pool, with my father and my twins, just frolicking around having a grand old time.  My father says, in this you-obviously-don’t-know-this stern father voice – “You need to get your moles checked.”  I am fully aware I have a number of moles on my back and arms and legs.  AND I am fully aware that they need to be checked out on occasion.  In fact, I have been to three different dermatologists over the past decade and have a mole map at one local skin doc’s office.  I go see her annually and she measures some of the larger freckles to see if there have been any changes.  Point being – I am on top of it, thank you.  I let my father know this.

Then, once we had the babies out and were all enjoying a little snack, he comes out with another comment.  “Daughter, this is new – you should wear sun block every day.  In fact, you should put sun block on your children everyday too.”  I said to him, through the ringing in my ears and the red mist before my eyes, as steadily as I could manage  - “Tell me something I don’t know.”  I am not sure he heard me, that is, I am not sure he was listening, because he had no reply.

I told my husband this exchange like this:


Honey, would you say I like the sun or avoid the sun?

Sweetheart, you never go in the sun!  Your umbrella-carrying and glove-wearing is part of you.

This afternoon my father told me to wear sun block everyday.  He thought his was something of which I was unaware.

My God!  Doesn’t he know you at all?


That’s what is upsetting me – the forcible reminder that my father has not paid me any mind for the past eighteen years, at least.  I am, to him, a middle daughter; defined by a few funny remarks made in childhood, my clumsiness (which I have overcome, thank you!  You should see me swing dance) and the fact I was born second.  The anti-sun thing is really a big part of who I am as an individual.  It sounds nutty, but it’s true.  I have been carrying parasols for the past two decades.  I coat my babies with sun block on a daily basis.  I wear long sleeved shirts to protect my arms as I drive.  Heck, I’ll wear gloves in August to protect the backs of my hands, because I want to keep them as smooth and white as I can.  Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you - She stays out of the sun – it’s just the way she is. How can anyone overlook a woman wearing gloves all summer long? I wonder what he’ll say next – just to inform me of something I plainly don’t know…

“Daughter, you should breastfeed your babies until at least one year of age, or longer if you can.”  “Thanks for the hot tip!  I’ll be sure to call my La Leche league Leader and let her know her International organization is now okay!”

“Daughter, it’s good to carry your baby in a sling– it will actually help him grow.”  “Great!  I’ll let William and Martha Sears know they have the green light to keep writing books.”

“Daughter, your sister is a Liberal!”  “Really?  What gave it away?  Was it Air America on memory in her car?  Or the copy of Bushwhacked on her bedside table?  Or was it the printed out e-mail from Joe Connason on her desk?”

I love and respect my father, as a dutiful child should, but also because I want to.  I hope, someday, he will want to respect me in return, not because I said something funny when I was 4, but because I am now grown, with children of my own, and, according to my husband, friends, sister, in-laws and neighbors, I am somehow managing to do a good job with them, all by myself.  I know my father is the only father I have, but he should realize I am not just the only middle child he has, but a fully fledged personality too.  He was actually shocked, and I think a bit frightened, by my blog about my brother.  I don’t think he had ever realized I have my own eyes to see people and situations in my own way, not just as the situations appear to him.  After he told me it was monstrous, the way I let loose on my brother, he told me I was a genius and had to write a book.  I guess he hasn’t been listening to me talk about the writing I have been doing for the past four months either.

I swear by all that’s dear to me that I will keep my eyes and heart open and really SEE my sons grow.  I will know who they are.  If they develop a personality quirk when they are 11 months, great.  It is who they are right now.  If they change again when they are a year old, wonderful! It’s who they are then.  I know they will keep on changing and developing and growing and maturing at age 2, age 5, age 12, age 20, age 30, and I will keep up with them.  I will pay attention to them, and I will make myself see who they are as people, not just as my sons. 

And, by God, I’ll be as pale as I can be doing it.