smoking

The one thing I knew I wanted as a kid was to never be like my mother — no Jose Cuervo, no Marlboro Light 100s, no makeup mirror dusted with coke.

If I could redo the conversation with her today, I would probably light up right alongside her.

If I could redo the conversation with her today, I would probably light up right alongside her.

I told my kids if they are going to pick a substance, pick pot. Don’t buy booze. Don’t drink cough syrup. Do get high. Why? Because pot doesn’t kill people. Pot doesn’t wreck your liver. Pot makes you want to eat cookies and listen to Pink Floyd on reproduction vinyl you bought at Urban Outfitters.

I lit-up, inhaled, and slowly released the sweet smoke. It was beautiful and relaxing until I was interrupted with these, dreaded, words: “MOM?! Are you smoking?”

I’ll be the first to admit that a large part of my twenties was spent in a euphoric haze brought on by fairly regular pot smoking. I loved the stuff — and it certainly loved me. I don't feel I ever had a “problem” with it, but I did feel a strong pull to have it in my life.

I drank caffeine, ate candy, ignored What to Expect While You're Expecting — and nothing bad happened.

Bravo for choosing a controversial word, Oxford Dictionary.