About halfway to the donut shop, I realized what they meant by “the long lasting effects” of marijuana edibles.
I’m usually a Special K low-calorie pastry “crisps” kind of gal in the morning, yet here I was driving to Lamar’s–and I wasn’t going to order just one.
There were other signs: like the fact I was squinting into the sun for 20 minutes before I thought to put on my sunglasses or that my girls were running late to school as usual and I didn’t even yell at them to “HURRY UP!!” once. In fact I didn’t feel like yelling about anything the morning after my friend slipped a little special “herb” into the tomato sauce.
As we pushed back from the table after a delicious meal, I noticed our host eyeing my husband and I expectantly.
“How are feeling?” he asked us.
I thought it an unusual question for a chef to ask after we had just finished his latest creation.
“If you mean how did it taste, it was delicious,” I responded.
“No, I mean how do you feel?”
It wasn’t until all three of us were singing “She ran crying Willlldfirrre” at the top at our lungs that I realized there might be something more than a couple of glasses of wine in play.
Even though pot has been legal in my home state of Colorado for a year now, I still feel like I shouldn’t talk about my experience with my friend’s “Mile High Sauce.” What if folks in the PTA found out? Or my writing students at Colorado State University?
My students would probably ask me for the recipe–and the PTA members too, now that I think about it.
The more time I spend hanging out with moms on the school yard after the tardy bell rings, the more I realize that I’m not the only one who has been electrified with stress by all this parenting stuff.
This past week alone I’ve had to assure my 10-year-old daughter that she doesn’t have to “decide what she wants to be when she grows up by the end of the month when the middle school counselors come in to help them set up their schedule” and monitor eight 8-year-olds as they created terrariums so they wouldn’t shatter the glass jars they were planting them in.
Quietly some parents “tailgate” before ice skating shows, school plays or other events that stir up sympathetic performance anxiety among parents.
“Gee, that’s not actually coffee in that thermos is it? (Pause) Did you bring another styrofoam cup?”
Even more quietly, stressed-out parents go running to the shelter of “Mother’s Little Helper.” Back in the 60s when the Stones wrote that song for mothers like mine, they were talking about Valium. These days moms pop a wide variety of antidepressant/anti-anxiety drugs instead.
I know because I’m one of them. Sure the stuff helps me from freaking out over every missed homework assignment or botched performance, but I don’t like taking something everyday.
So my therapist suggested Pot. But I just couldn’t bring myself to the dispensary. Even though it’s legal and I would have a legitimate reason for a prescription, it just feels wrong.
I mean what am I supposed to to do, fire up a joint in the bleachers at my daughter’s next synchronized swim meet? Bring a bong to the next parent-teacher conference? Might be a bit much.
So I guess next time I’m stressed about a child-rearing situation, I’ll just have my friend fix me a batch of his special sauce–and I’ll bring the donuts.