my dad smokes weed

These Are The 7 Signs Your Parents Are Probably Still Smoking Weed

Considering most of our parents were in their primeВ in the 70’s and 80’s, there’s a good chance they were smoking weed — among many other things.В While they might not act like it now, they know exactly what’s up and can tell when your ass is high, so don’t play dumb with them.

If you’ve ever wondered why you’re such a stoner, just remember loving marijuana isВ hereditary (not really), so you have nothing to be ashamed of.

Chances are, your parents have smoked it, they’re still smoking it, or they just smoked so damn much, they can’t smoke no more.В Why they still haven’t told your ass is completely on you.

If you sparkВ trees every day, your parents probably did too (definitely your dad), but how do you know if they’re still lighting up that magic dragon?

These are the eight telltale signs your parentsВ are lighting up when you’re not around.

You’ve caught them in theВ kitchen at 1 am eating sandwich meat.

If you were ever wondering who was eating all of your cereal and peanut butter out the jar as a child, it wasn’t the boogie man, it was definitelyВ your high-as-sh*tВ parents.

Getting the midnight munchies is natural when you’re stoned, but getting to the kitchen and realizing your mom or dadВ already ate everything is something no child could beВ prepared for.

Clearing out all the sandwich meat for your school lunch the next day isn’t necessarily great parenting, but it will surely teach your ass a lesson you will never forget.

They hadВ a friend who lookedВ like a sketchy poker player.

He definitely wasn’t your uncle, wouldВ only beВ over for literally five minutes at a time and looks like Joe Pesci inВ “Home Alone.”

Your dad would probably tell you he’s one of his golf buddies, but considering your dad doesn’t play golf, something’s not adding up.

Your parents would probablyВ disappear afterwards, or tellВ you to go to bed, which was awkward especially when itВ wasn’t even noon yet.

They were oddlyВ inconsistent with theirВ punishments.

One day, they would ground you for staying out too late. The next night, you’d come home even later and they’d forgotten they even had a son.

If your parents were inconsistent with their punishments, it’s probably because their moods were stabilized with some good old-fashioned THC.

The next time you get into any sort of trouble, try handing your mom and dad a joint before you break the news to them.

They tell you when they’re going to bed (or when you should go to bed).

Most parents are nocturnal smokers and have to wait until night to transform into their true selves.

Often, they will tell you when they’re going to bed, so you don’t try to disturb them. They might even tell you to go to sleep so they can take over the living room.

Their suggested Netflix includes “IronВ Chef,” “Planet Earth” and “How It’s Made.”

When it comes to your parents’ Netflix suggestions, you may see some entertainmentВ that’s best enjoyed when elevated.

Pretty much anything with food, nature and animals or how sh*t is made will tell you these are people who love to have their minds blown. and inspired to go get more munchies.

They do awesome sh*t like skydiving andВ cooking turduckens.

Did you have an awesome childhood? Then chances are, your parents were just high the whole time, trying to do awesome sh*t on their own. You just happened to be present.

If you’ve ever noticed they’re actually cooler than you, there’s a great chance they’re smoking some good too!

When you see your dad pull up with the top down, bumping some Bob Marley and then cooking some beer fried chicken later on, you know exactly what’s up.

Your weed is missing from your room.

Well, Billy, your room is clean; your shirts are folded, and your weed is missing. This could only mean one thing:В Your mother found your stash and is sharing that sh*t with your pops!

It’s kind of an unwritten rule that if parents find their children’sВ weed, it’s automatically theirs. That’s just how it goes, young blood.

Don’t worry, at least you’ll get a bomb dinner out of this.

Considering most of our parents were in their primeВ in the 70’s and 80’s, there’s a good chance they were smoking weed — among many other things.В While they might not act like it now, they know exactly what’s up and can tell when your ass is high,…

My Dad Will Never Stop Smoking Pot

Marijuana makes him carefree and happy. But years of using the drug had a ruinous effect on my family.

Leah Allen January 15, 2014

My entire life, my dad has smoked pot. It’s so synonymous with him that I’ve made a joke out of it. “What does your dad do?” comes that age old question. “He’s a pot-smoking hippie” is the easiest answer. And he is. Several times a day, every day, for as far back as I can remember, my dad has toked the reefer, hit the Mary Jane.

There’s a lot of discussion about pot right now, as different states push towards legalizing it for medical or personal use. As I listen to the various arguments—about health, morality, criminal justice, personal freedom—they all come back to the same thing for me: Dad, Dad, Daddy. The family element is almost always missing from the debates: What does smoking pot do, not only to users but to their children?

I don’t know when my dad started to smoke. I do know that before he smokes a joint he can get antsy, angry. His temper is fast and sharp. He hit my mom when she was pregnant and that’s when she left him. I was three. I also know that after he smokes, my dad is relaxed, soothed, likely to go off on dreamy tangents about colors and pictures. He was great with us when we were kids, an adventurer ready to play on our level. It’s hard to deny that pot has made him a happier person.

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During the few weeks my brother, sister, and I spent with my dad every summer, he took us to reggae festivals. Pot circles sprung up as the sun went down. One year, feeling bold, we children pooled our money together and bought a “ganja brownie” from the walking vendor.

That was the same year my dad forgot us. He always had a spotty memory, a well-documented side-effect of marijuana. Pick-up times were regularly missed by several hours. Dinners—half-cooked, half eaten—were left in the microwave or on the stovetop. Birthdays brushed by unnoticed. Once he remembered my birthday two years in a row and sent the same CD both times.

At the reggae festival that summer, he disappeared for several days. It wasn’t malicious. It was just absent-minded and relaxed. My little sister cried one morning with hunger. “Can we eat with you?” I asked a nearby camping family.

“Where are your parents? Don’t you want to eat with them?”

“I don’t know.” The strangers took us in and gave us plain yogurt and fresh fruit.

Growing up, I hated that my dad smoked. Studies have indicated that parents with substance abuse problems can cause economic hardship, legal troubles, emotional distress, and impaired attachment within their families. Children tend to respond with anxiety, depression, guilt, shame, loneliness, confusion, anger, and fear.

That fear came most palpably for us while my dad was driving. He was likely to get distracted by other cars, by songs on the radio, or, in later years, by photos on his phone, sometimes turning his attention completely away from the wheel. The National Institute on Drug Abuse notes that marijuana more than doubles a driver’s risk of being in an accident. Many of our road trips ended early with broken-down cars left on the side of the road. On good days, my dad would forget to fill them with gas or change the oil. On bad days, he would nudge into something and a tire would go.

The anxiety hit us when we considered all the implications. What if our dad got caught? What if he went to jail again? This happened sporadically throughout my childhood—there were unmarked weeks or months where my dad would disappear. Even today, I don’t know the exact charges. We don’t talk of these things.

We were ashamed of his habit. It was the elephant in the room, the omnipresent thing we could never discuss. We were confused when he forgot us and hurt that he didn’t love us enough to quit smoking once and for all.

Then there was the anger. We grew up poor, raised by a former pregnant teenager who fought hard to raise us. We followed our mother’s example, trying to claw our way into something better. For my dad, such an exceptionally talented artist, that something better never materialized over time. Complacency did.

When my father started growing pot, he couldn’t keep it a secret from us anymore. He’d always had obsessions with certain topics. First it was netting. Then orchids. And then came the marijuana plants. “Did you see all of them in the yard? Everywhere. They’re just everywhere,” my sister whispered to me one summer when I was 16. She hated his smoking more than I did.

“Dad, I know what those are,” I explained to him later over a cup of tea. “You don’t have to hide it.”

So he showed me the other plants he was growing in the basement with hydroponics. Their roots, sprayed with water, were naked and white like bleached veins.

“It’s medical,” he explained, pointing to a certificate. He looked uncertain, fragile, simultaneously embarrassed and proud.

“Of course.” I never went down there again.

When I came back the following year, the last of the orchids were gone. He told me how neighborhood teens kept sneaking in to steal the pot from him, and how he had been burgled several times.

My brother started smoking when he was 12. Studies have shown that children of alcoholics are much more likely to become alcoholics themselves. There isn’t so much research looking at the cyclical impact of marijuana use. Although my brother is strikingly intelligent, he eventually quit school altogether, perhaps not surprising given the drug’s impact on academics. He moved back in with my dad, and he remains there to this day. Every summer he tells me he’s going to leave. Every summer I fight harder to believe him.

I tried pot years later. It was the Christmas after my mom died from a progressive, endless disease, and I sat in a car with my dad. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t judging him for his habit. I wanted to understand what he’d been doing all those years. I also wanted the calm that marijuana promises. Instead, I felt foggy and anxious, angry at myself for breaking an unspoken promise, angry at my dad for letting me.

I saw my dad and brother recently. Their pot plants have started to die. The cats my dad has always kept have multiplied. There are eight now, or maybe 10—they come and go, and no one knows the exact number, but it doesn’t really matter. Everything smells a bit like animal urine mixed with that sharp, distinctive scent of marijuana. My dad is losing teeth and getting old. His mind drifts more than it did before, bouncing from topic to topic or lingering, quietly confused, on one. He seems less interested in selling the pot he grows, more drawn to sitting and smoking it. As a result, he doesn’t have any savings or plans for the future. It’s a good month when his electricity stays on.

Then there’s my sister, the baby, the one who struggled harder than any of us. She tried so desperately to finish high school, a rare feat in my family. Then she tried community college. As we sat outside at a café this year, talking about my dad’s temper and his rambling mind, she told me how she herself has started to smoke.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating. “But it’s really not that bad, is it? And it’s relaxing. It makes everything okay for a while. Don’t be angry, please don’t be angry.”

I can’t be angry. I understand the appeal of marijuana: its soothing properties, its potential to help chronic pain sufferers, its medical implications. I also believe it should be legalized. In a world where alcohol and nicotine can be purchased at most corner shops, the argument against bringing pot sales out into the open is a weak one.

Yet I can be sad. So very little is understood about how marijuana impacts families. I can’t help but thinking that the cool, carefree users of today will be the parents of tomorrow.

My dad will never stop smoking pot. Sometimes I wonder about the man he might have been, and the lives we all might have had, if he’d never started.

Marijuana makes him carefree and happy. But years of using the drug had a ruinous effect on my family.