The damaging impact of a parent’s drug or alcohol use on their children has been well-documented in studies and memoirs. I know how harmful substances can be to family life, but to take the edge off the hard tasks of mothering, I’ve often used caffeine, alcohol and, more recently, weed. The legalisation of marijuana and the normalisation of its use where I live in Washington, in the US, lulled me into thinking it was OK, that it would enable me to relax, focus and playfully connect to my imaginative child.
Right next to the supermarket, a cannabis dispensary, Higher Leaf, announced its grand opening last year. Rows of sparkling display cabinets offered cannabis in all its forms, bringing back memories of a childfree, transcendent lifestyle. The salesperson recommended a sativa pre-roll, for “continuously unfolding realisations” with the ability to get stuff done. Weed combines spirituality and practicality, I thought, the same way motherhood is both a calling and a service job. So I bought it, presenting my ID and cash: no prescription or medical card required.
Back at home, I still had to put the shopping away, do the dishes, turn on the laundry, cook dinner, make family small talk, walk the dog, feed the dog, do more dishes, put the dog to bed, fold the laundry and put it into closets and drawers. But instead, I went to the balcony with my newly acquired joint.
It came in a little plastic tube with a holographic logo. Within minutes I was marvelling at the stars in a way I hadn’t in a very long time, maybe ever, as the wind stroked the fine hairs on my arms. Where was I? Oh, yes, I was a mother and had things to do. I floated in for duty. Harried mum personality transformed, I was awed by the textures of dinner prep and the eloquence of my child’s monologues. I found meaning travelling far away into a hidden world of thoughts, as I stirred the roux and gave the dog another treat.
I brushed my teeth before dinner so my family wouldn’t smell the weed on me. Growing up in the “war on drugs” era, I’d learned that users were losers. But could they even tell if I was not fully there? Didn’t they just need my body, my hands, my labour? As they discussed other things, I began to wonder if AI could take over parts of my role, to free up my time for leisure. I was zinging a telepathic message to Sam Altman when my child interrupted my thoughts: “Mom! Mom!”
“Yes, dear,” I squeaked, heart racing, wondering why he was screaming. “I called you 10 times and you weren’t listening!” he said. I apologised, sinking mentally into the dinner table and feeling the need for more puffs. The deliciousness of escaping my responsibilities was irresistible, the way my father used to go out for a cigarette right after dinner, leaving the dishes to my mother.
But what started as an occasional treat on Saturdays started creeping into weeknights and, within weeks, I was smoking every evening and all day each weekend. One night, as I was indulging in my early-evening joint on the patio, my son walked in. He’d been learning in school about the dangers of smoking and drugs. “Mom?! You smoke?”
He was furious and I was ashamed at being caught. “Promise me you’ll quit!” he cried. I promised him I would and then forgot about it. My habit had more influence over me than I realised, and my now down-regulated dopamine receptors seemed unable to manufacture happiness independent of weed. And so I got high again, only this time I had new questions to ponder.
Was I an addict, limited by the predispositions of my brain? Research shows that our nervous systems are neuroplastic, able to change themselves, endlessly. Yet, I was facing up to how hard this was – my constant cravings were causing me to break promises to my child.
Ultimately my son’s intervention was the wake-up call I needed. A mother’s relationship with her son is a boy’s blueprint for his future relationships with women. I didn’t want to teach him that a woman will never truly be there for him, distracted by the carnival ride of her drug-induced thoughts. I couldn’t allow myself to become a robotic mother, half-dead to the intricacies of our relationship, collecting future regrets about being absent in his childhood as I re-enacted my own childhood of unmet needs.
I threw away the lighters in the kitchen drawers. It was the same thing I’d wanted for myself as a child: for someone to really be home, fully present with me. I can’t deny that it felt like a sacrifice, a letting go. But six months later, I was grateful. I thanked him for inspiring me to come clean. He nodded, smiling, full of the warmth of having done something good in the world.
Saira Khan is a writer based near Seattle, Washington
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