We were halfway down the front porch steps when she stopped.
"Oh, I need my sunscreen!"
She was right. It was an overcast Saturday morning and we were heading to the park, and in the rush of getting out the door I'd completely missed it.
My three-year-old had not.
She turned around, marched back inside, and went straight to our sunscreen basket by the door. She grabbed her brush, I grabbed mine, and we stood there together buffing on SPF before heading back out.
That moment wasn’t something I engineered. It was something we built, slowly and imperfectly together.
What This Really Means
When people ask me how I got my toddler to "be good" about sunscreen I laugh a little, because she's not good at it in some compliant, checkbox kind of way.
She's aware of it. And that awareness didn't come from lectures or bribes or fear. It came from repetition. From making it normal, doing it together, over and over, until it became part of what we do.
Where This Started
When I think back to my own childhood and sunscreen use, I mostly remember discomfort.
Sunscreen running into my eyes at the beach. The sting of it on the tennis court as the sweat dripped down in the Texas heat. My dad eventually resorted to thick, white zinc on my face, which was effective but mortifying for a kid who just wanted to blend in.
I learned early that sunscreen was uncomfortable and inconvenient, so I avoided it, especially on my face. And as a millennial growing up in the age of tanning culture, no one really pushed back.
I didn't want that for my daughter.
I started working for Brush On Block when she turned six months old. By that point, I'd already fallen in love with the mineral powder format. It was unlike anything I'd used before: no sting, no grease, no white cast. Just a soft brush and mattifying layer of protection that actually felt good to put on.
So when it was time to introduce sunscreen to her, the choice felt obvious and I brought home the BOB KIDS SPF 30 mineral powder. I wanted her first experience to be different from mine. I wanted it to feel like care, not punishment.
The Early Days
At six months, she couldn't apply it herself, but she could hold the brush. She could feel the soft purple bristles. And after I helped her apply it, she could play with it and carry it around like a prize.
As she got older the routine evolved. She'd sit with me while I applied my own Brush On Block SPF 30 mineral powder after doing my makeup, and she'd want hers too. We'd brush on sunscreen side by side, taking turns putting it on each other. She'd giggle when the bristles tickled her nose and ears. For a long time, it was easy, playful, and fun.
And then, as true toddlerhood descended, it became, well, less fun.
When I Made It a Task
I can't pinpoint the exact moment, but I know what changed.
The mornings became a battle, and sunscreen became another thing to check off the list instead of a moment to share. I got focused on efficiency. I hurried and stopped playing.
And boy, she felt it.
Suddenly, the brush that used to delight her became something I was making her use. She resisted and I pushed. It became a battle that neither of us wanted but one we were each determined to win.
At one point, I realized I needed to step back to remember why sunscreen used to be something she requested, not something forced upon her.
It was about making it feel like a ritual, a shared moment of connection in our routine that happened to be rooted in sun protection.
Finding Our Way Back
My daughter is a planner who likes knowing what comes next, so I went back to naturally plugging sunscreen into our routines.
On weekends especially, we talk through the day together. "We're going to the park after breakfast, so what needs to happen next?"
Change my outfit. Put on shoes. Get a ball. Apply sunscreen.
She lists them off like she's running a small operation, and it works because she's in control of the sequence, not me.
When she's feeling resistant, we set a timer. Two minutes until sunscreen time. It's not a threat, it’s a heads-up. A way to help her transition from one thing to the next.
And I brought back the ritual that had worked when she was little: doing it together.
Now, most mornings, she runs in and out of the bathroom while I get ready, and she knows I apply my SPF 30 brush after I do my makeup. She opens her drawer, grabs her SPF 30 KIDS brush and applies hers. Sometimes she asks, "Can I use your brush today?" and I let her. Sometimes I ask if I can borrow hers, and she giggles and hands it over.
We're not rushing. We're not negotiating. We're just doing it together.
When she puts it on in a way that's more enthusiastic than thorough (like just her nose, or way too much on one cheek), I don't correct her in the moment. I say, "Excellent start! I'm going to give you a few more buffs to be sure you're extra covered so we can play longer." (Author’s note: sunscreen should be applied every two hours regardless of how thoroughly you put it on, but don’t tell my kid that!)
But she's three and a half. She's not going to apply sunscreen perfectly on her own, and that's not the goal. The goal is that when we're about to go outside, she thinks about it.
What I'm Actually Teaching Her
That morning on the porch when she stopped herself and said, "I need sunscreen!"? That was the proof.
Not that she's mastered the technique, or that every application is thorough. But that she's aware. She's starting to take ownership, and sunscreen is just part of getting ready, like brushing her teeth and putting on her shoes.
It's become normal for her because I've made it normal, and like most of my experiences so far in parenting, I’m learning just as much as I’m teaching. She's made it more normal for me, too.
I was much more inconsistent about reapplying my own sunscreen, but as she has become the reminder to apply, when she grabs hers, I grab mine. We do it together again.
Her habits are shaping mine just as much as mine are shaping hers.
Progress Over Perfection
Some days, we forget. Some days she flat-out refuses and we have to negotiate, or I just accept that today isn't the day for a power struggle. But more and more, it's just what we do.
I not only keep our brushes together in a basket by the door but keep other sets that travel with us – one in my bag, one in the car – always within reach. Not because I'm trying to be some perfectly prepared parent but because I've learned that consistency matters more than perfection.
And consistency for us looks like small, repeated moments. Side by side in the mirror or taking a pause at the park for water and reapplication. Purple bristles and soft brushes. A toddler learning to take care of herself through intentional moments.
I can't protect her from everything, but I can give her tools and model the habits I want her to have. I can make it easy, playful, and ours.
And on the days when she's the one reminding me? I can pause, smile, and let her lead.
Because if there’s one thing I know about parenting, it’s that she's not just learning from me. We're learning together.
