"Like applying sunscreen to a small child" is a smilie for difficulty. I could say, exasperated, my life as a suburban mother who "delivers obstetrically once, and by car forever after" is "like applying sunscreen to a small child."
I do it daily, two jigger-fuls per child as recommended by my sister's friend, a man I refer to as "the dermatologist."
The verbs are cowpoke: lassoing, wrangling, bellowing. I hear a harmonica, playing mournfully, and dust; this show is a Western. The kids are mustangs. They see Neutrogena wet skin kids, beach & pool on the label of the bottle and bolt, kicking up prairie dust. "No, Mommy, no!"
I wrestle them to the floor, and it's like that game I played at camp: the greased watermelon in a pool game. You'd think I was killing those watermelons, as I paw their nose and cheeks, preventing melanoma. I feel like a marauding bear.