Taboos are not easily shed. To many people, hoping that your kids smoke weed is as twisted and disconcerting as damning your unborn child to hell. It has a malicious and juvenile ring to it, sliding off the tongue, dripping in innuendos and scathing connotations, the way a curse comes out the first time a 12-year-old gets feisty enough to fire it.
Contrary to the uneasy 12-year-old, this declaration isn’t made in malice, foolery or for attention. It’s a simple statement, one said in passing only to think about more seriously in the confines of my apartment. Do I actually hope my kids will smoke weed? In the same way I hope they will do well in school and eat their vegetables? In the way I hope they will be free thinkers and appreciate Woody Allen films?
In the way I hope they’ll like books and black olives? While I do not hope my children would ever be smoking pot at the same time I’m trying to get them to eat their vegetables, I have concluded that I hope when every other kid starts legally drinking at 21, my kids take up the reefer, instead.
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