Sun King

Even though Diana and I are one in the eyes of the Catholic church and the state of Illinois, there are a few ways we differ, aside from genitalia.

One difference is wine. One of us is extremely knowledgeable about wine and its origins and its varieties and tastes. The other knows wine stains on a couch cushion don’t come out and it’s best to blame them on the dog.

The other difference is the sun. One of us has beautiful olive skin that is only made more beautiful in sunlight. The other has Irish skin kept lily white by playing Star Wars in basements for 37 years.

That brings us to our son. Poor Elijah. He loves the sun. He loves playing in the backyard. Loves playing at the beach. And, as you know, loves exploring the digestive tracts of plastic fish at the Lisle Water Park.

But he inherited his father’s tolerance for the giver of life.

Ever since summer descended on Chicago for its yearly fifteen minutes of glory, we’ve found that Eli can’t handle the sun. It’s not sunburn. He spends his days covered in SPF seal coat. It’s the energy sucking effects of the sun brought on by depletion of the Ozone layer from too many off Broadway productions of “Hairspray.”

The minute his body reaches its sun limit, he erupts in fevers and flu like symptoms that doctors have mistakenly called Hoof and Mouth Disease, Croup and Cat Scratch Fever.

Our alternatives are to buy him a big lady’s hat (vetoed by me) or keeping him indoors during the summer (vetoed by Diana) or moving to Seattle (vetoed by my brother).

p.s. Today’s post is in honor of Diana’s brother, Mike, who asked me to add another post so he didn’t have to continue to look at Saturday’s post, which portrayed Eli in a…less than manly manner. Here you go, Mike. Today’s photo is of Diana and Eli singing “It’s Raining Men.”