Parenting is hard. But do you know what’s even harder than parenting your own kids? Watching someone else’s.

Last night I took my 6-year-old daughter and one of her friends to soccer practice. For the purpose of this story, let’s call her friend ‘Lil Wayne.’

Note: I spent far too much time debating whether to call him Lil Wayne or Lil Jon. In the process I discovered there is an entire list of “artists” who use the ‘Lil’ prefix with their name, including a cat. A cat! It’s gripping stuff. Feel free to go read it instead of this post.

Lil Wayne is my child’s favorite partner in crime. He is her muse. Her troublemaking twin. The Butch Cassidy to her Sundance Kid (not sure what that means, just trying to sound cool). Basically when the two of them get together, all hell tends to break loose.

I spent the first 20 minutes of soccer practice trying to cajole the two of them to actually get on the field. They were tackling one another, playing chase, and for one frightful moment I lost sight of Lil Wayne until he reappeared out of nowhere. Apparently he had gone AWOL and climbed the fence. I’m just grateful he came back.

Eventually they calmed down enough to engage in practice, so I took the opportunity to check my email – OK FINE I WAS LOOKING AT INSTAGRAM, SHUSH. When I looked up after no more than a minute or two, Lil Wayne had managed to zip himself inside one of the team’s equipment bags. He was writhing around inside the bag like a tragic Houdini-gone-wrong scene.

It took me a few seconds to register what was happening. Why is that bag moving? Is there an animal in there? Wait. WHERE IS LIL WAYNE?!

Once I figured it out, I raced over to unzip him, terrified that he was having a seizure or was about to suffocate. By the time I got there, the other kids had crowded around him and were laughing hysterically. Turns out Lil Wayne was not actually dying, he was pretending to be a zombie. Of course! Because that makes total sense.

I fully understand the awesomeness of zombies, and I can even appreciate the humor of the bag trick – if you are a licensed magician. But moving forward I’m going to request that Lil Wayne save his death-defying stunts for days when his mother drives the carpool instead of me.

Last year at this time my daughter had just graduated from preschool when she informed me that she knew “all of the bad words.” I was caught off guard and worried about where she might have heard such obscenities. She then shared them with me.

The bad B word was “Butt.” The bad S word was “Stupid.” The bad H word was “Hate.” The bad N word was “Nipple.” And the bad “IHB word” was “I Hate your Butt.”

It was a sweet and funny moment and I was grateful for her innocence. Ahh the naivete of youth.

Fast forward one year as my daughter is about to finish kindergarten. Yesterday she looked at me and asked, “Mama, what’s a motherf*cker?” But she didn’t use the asterisk.

Over the past two weeks my dear sweet child has unleashed a slew of curse words that we had no idea she knew. Sometimes she even uses them correctly.

I’d like to thank the public education system for enlightening my child this year beyond my wildest dreams. Not only did she learn to read and write, but her vocabulary now matches that of a middle-aged truck driver (no offense to truck drivers).

I’d also like to give a special shout-out to the foul-mouthed heathen who shared these delightful terms with my child at the lunch table. May your potty mouth serve you well in the years to come. Like when you’re sitting in detention.

Despite my best efforts to thwart my child’s fascination with these brave new words, I can tell by the twinkle in her eye that she is eager to use them. So now my summer objective is to teach her, earlier than I had planned, one of life’s most important lessons: With great profanity comes great responsibility. Wish me luck. I fucking need it.

My 2-year-old has been in love with the pacifier since the moment it touched her newborn lips. It soothes her like nothing else.

Leading up to her 2nd birthday, we reduced her usage (mostly) to naps and bedtime, knowing that we’d want to eventually break the addiction.

Then at her 2-year check-up, her doctor said we missed the window. She felt it would be better to wait until my daughter can understand and communicate more about why we are taking it away. Otherwise she could be scarred for life (not the pediatrician’s exact words, but something like that).

A week later, her dentist disagreed and said we needed to kick the habit ASAP. Otherwise my daughter’s teeth would be damaged for life (not her exact words, but something like that).

Conflicted to the core, I researched successful methods to kick the habit. Staging a visit from “The Binky Fairy” seemed to be a common approach, and was what our dentist recommended.

I also read several in-depth book reviews, and eventually purchased a delightful tale designed to empower and enable my toddler to say Bye-Bye to Binky.

And I sought advice from friends, one of whom explained that her daughter finally ditched her pacifier when they told her it would be given to a horse at a nearby stable. That was two years ago, and they still have to visit the horse regularly to make sure he’s doing OK.

There aren’t any horses in my neighborhood, but so help me, if that method works I considered driving 30 miles to find a farm.

Then two weeks ago a speech therapist gave me her recommendation. The conversation went something like this:

Speech therapist: “Cut the binky in half. When she asks you about it, play dumb and say you don’t know what happened.”

Me: “That’s it? Just cut it?”

ST: “Yes. Cut it.”

Me: “Should I stage some sort of elaborate scene to make it look like her toys did it? Maybe our Elf on the Shelf could be the perp?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I also damage something her sister loves so neither of them feels it is unfair and resents me for it later?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “To help ensure she will always see the glass as half-full vs. half-empty, should I tell her that a giant buzzsaw ripped through the city, but luckily, the only thing it managed to hit in our house was her binky?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I cry when I show it to her so she sees that I am empathetic and wants to confide in me when she is a teen?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I start to breastfeed her again as a means to compensate for her loss?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I use organic scissors?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

So I cut it. And that was the end of it. No tears. No drama. No interest in using a binky ever again.

So simple, and yet so painstakingly researched. Well played, parenthood.