Two Kids are Lâil Angels. Two are Lâil Devils.
Why All Four are Perfect
Dancing on the Edge
The Everyday Struggle of Middle Class Parents
A Lack of Education
How One Mom Sparked a National Debate on Teaching Abstinence in the Classroom
Parent to Parent
“Get on Team Parent”
Why Talk About God?
Secular Parenting for a Less-Jerkish Future
When my first child was on the way, I had no shortage of advice at my disposal. Books and websites and YouTube videos gave me answers to all sorts of questions, from âWhatâs the best swaddling technique?â to âOh dear god! Why is tar coming out of my babyâs butt?â
What I was not prepared for, however, was playing with my child. Specifically, the sheer mind-numbing monotony of playing the same games over... and over... (and over... and over...) day in and day out.
With my first daughter, a repeat offender was a toy aimed at improving motor skills. By pushing five different shapes, various animalsâa lion, a rabbit, an elephant, etc.âwould pop up to her (never-ending) surprise and delight. It was her favorite toy, and I came to despise it with the heat of a thousand suns.
My daughterâs obsession with this toyâand other similarly mesmerizing playthingsâall shared the similar trait of repetition... which may be necessary for kids, but absolutely stultifying for parents. And while I like to think of myself as a patient dad, it wasnât long into my parenting life when the selfish need to shatter the monotony of playtime began to overshadow the joys of interacting with my child. I was, essentially, starting to lose my marblesâoften while dumping marbles out of a bag and putting them back again.
And then, one afternoon, while my wife was powering through the latest tome required by her book club, I stumbled across a relic from my pre-parent life: a small glass pipe that still had a few scraps of leaf in it. I slipped outside and fired up.
I should pause here to note that Iâve never been a particularly heavy weed smoker. Even now that itâs becoming legal, Iâm much more of a weed dabbler than a Cheech and/or Chong. But the light baking I gave myself that afternoon made my parental self see pot in a whole new light. Suddenly, the pop-up toy no longer terrorized me. Repeatedly building towers of blocks for ceremonial toppling wasnât a chore. Dumping out the bag of marbles over and over again was actually fun.
I n other words, when it came to playing with my daughter, a pinch of weed made me a more engaged, more attentive parent. I was more on her wavelength, to dust off some hippie slang.
Now, before Child Protective Services fires up its SWAT team (they have those, right?), I want to make clear that while that first blaze of inspiration wasnât the last, I didnât regularly fire up before playing with my child. I certainly donât condone being a raging pothead while parenting.
But for me at least, a touch of pot now and then helped me focus on, and often times connect better with, my daughters. Iâm pretty sure even Nancy Reagan would approve of that outcome.