I’ll never endorse the wake-and-bake approach to parenting, but I can’t see the difference between a glass or two of wine in the evening and a few hits of OG Kush off a clean bong.

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I’m a mom and I use marijuana. I know, it’s a shocker, right?

When I read that Jane couldn’t get anyone to write about pot-smoking moms who are tired of being judged by wine drinkers, I thought: OH, SHIT, THEY ARE PLAYING MY SONG. My ability to drink is severely limited due to the medications I take, but I use marijuana on a daily basis. Sure, I take it medically for spasticity and insomnia, but I’m a daily user, and I don’t hide it from anyone, and I have many thoughts on this subject, people.

When I was growing up, my mother kept one of those large, gallon-sized jugs of white Zinfandel in the refrigerator at all times. You know the ones — with the thumbhole, to keep it super-classy. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic; she was just a lower-middle-class woman with a small amount of disposable income, four children (and frequently foster children, often in sibling groups), and almost no free time who needed to have alcohol readily available at all times, because her ability to leave the house was seriously hindered by her responsibilities at home. I get it.

I mean, look at me. I HAVE MY PINKY OUT AND EVERYTHING, PEOPLE.

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My mother would occasionally sit in the kitchen with her friends and drink white Zin out of juice glasses in the evenings while we played, or read, or did our homework in the other room. We saw this as normal. It didn’t happen every evening — it just happened sometimes when she had friends over. It was calm and quiet and no big deal. No one died, cried or got hurt. It was a minor part of my childhood and didn’t affect anything.

I used to only use marijuana right before I went to bed. My daughter is a teenager, so there’s no real way to be discreet; she knows the smell, and I’ve been a medical marijuana activist in my state for several years now, so it’s no secret that I use.

My kid will be a senior in high school next year, and I’ve taken a new policy with regard to how we spend our evenings: We only have one year left before she moves out of our house, so once we’ve cleaned up after dinner, I will sit down with her and watch one hour of whatever god-awful piece of television she chooses. Sometimes it’s silly, sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s agonizing. We talk through the commercials and rehash everything. It’s bonding. But the things she chooses — sometimes it’s SO obvious she’s punishing me… Read the rest »

Like a Gunshot blast!