I wanted to get my husband to watch our daughter so I could get stoned and pound out this essay about being a mom who smokes pot. But when I stepped back into our apartment after smoking about half a bowl of something called "purple train wreck" out on the terrace, I knew I'd never be able to get any work done with this cute ass baby around to distract me. In the middle of playing some totally vacant, rule-less game that involved pretending to chew stuff, making growling noises, and giggling, I realized that she's like the funniest fucking person I've ever met. Anybody who thinks that weed makes parents ignore their children has clearly never been high around one.


Once upon a time, back when I was young and stupid enough to think that 30 was old, I thought that one magical day in the indeterminate future I'd just naturally age out of my predilection for smoking pot. That never happened. And why would it? Weed is awesome. I've always preferred it to alcohol. It doesn't have the calories or the hangover.

And I've never had a glass of wine and been captivated by children's books like I have after smoking a bowl. Staring at a page for God only knows how long, I caught myself saying very seriously, "Where is Waldo? I don't think he's in this one. Is he definitely always in it?"


I turned to my husband for an answer. He was cooking in the kitchen and I caught him trying to smash up garlic cloves with the end of some kind of broom handle instead of the Pampered Chef garlic press my aunt gave me at my wedding shower. See, that is exactly the kind of shit that would've irrationally pissed me off if I hadn't smoked. Instead, I just laughed.

Weed takes the edge off of my fatigue-induced bitchiness. It helps me not care so much about things. Wait, that sounds bad! I mean, it helps me not care about the stupid little unimportant things that I have a habit of getting hung up on and stressed about, like how my husband chooses to crush garlic. I don't mean to shatter your world view or anything, but being a lifelong pothead doesn't mean you're relegated to living in your parents' basement or being a deflated sack of skin on the couch, as many anti-marijuana PSAs would suggest. In fact, I'm a highly (pun intended) functioning member of society.

I have a full-time job. I'm a taxpayer. I'm a registered voter. I'm regularly contributing to my 401k and IRA. I'm married. I'm a homeowner. I'm a mom. I'm a stoner. I'm never going to find Waldo.

My husband grabbed the book out of my hands. "I have amazing scanning abilities. He's right here. Do they have races for these? I'd win." He tossed he book back to me and the baby.


"I don't know. Hey, is the Special Olympics every four years, too?" I asked sincerely as he went back to cooking. Pot really enables free association.

"Yeah, if they don't lose count."

It took me an embarrassingly long time to get what he meant by that, that's how slow I was. But slow people can take care of babies! If you don't think so, then you're ableist. If you don't know what that is, look it up. That's the best way to learn something and retain the information.


Anyway, half-laughing at a stupid Special Olympics joke might make me a bad person, but it doesn't make me a bad parent. And neither does occasionally smoking weed. I'm not getting all crazy, hanging out of limo sun roofs, smoking weed off of hookers' tits. I tend to ride out my buzz by giggling with my family, eating dinner, doing the dishes, putting the baby to bed and watching an episode of Friday Night Lights. One of the more exciting developments for me in recent weeks is when I started following Fuck Yeah Taylor Kitsch on Tumblr. If that isn't some boring ass mom shit, I don't know what is.

The point of all of this is that I know I'm not the only one, and I know I'm in good company, but I wish that more parents were open about smoking pot in order to reduce the stigma associated with it. You know, I'm a mom, but I'm also a person. Don't put me in a box. Unless it's a hot box.

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