I remember my brother saying, “Ma and Dad smoke weed!” when I was about five years old. I may have been five, but with all the drug PSAs and lectures at school I knew drugs were bad, mmmkay.

Then my mom kindly told us that, “Your father and I smoke marijuana, but we’ll never do it in front of you,” and of course they tossed in, “We better not catch you smoking pot! Ever!” I never saw my parents do it, but I knew when they were doing it because it was the only time their bedroom door was locked. I should mention I grew up in the city so we lived in apartments, not houses. Odors travel in small places.

When a friend came over in sixth grade I remember being so embarrassed when she said, “It smells like . . . weed in here.” I completely refused to acknowledge that she was 100 percent correct. “No it doesn’t.” She fought with me about it, but I just wouldn’t admit it. See, I didn’t care that my parents were potheads. I just didn’t want people to think my parents were bad.

Truthfully, it made me wonder if they were? It made me question whether or not the people who fed me, clothed me, and told me I could grow up to be anything I wanted were bad parents because they did drugs. All signs at the time pointed to yes. All the “special” episodes of Degrassi. The “special” programs at school. Everything said it was wrong. I felt a bit betrayed by them. I thought any good parent would be able to give it up if they were going to have kids.

Then one day at school all of my friends were complaining. “My mom won’t let me shave my legs!” “My parents treat me different because I am girl!” “My parents are getting divorced and my mom won’t let me see my father!” Everyone was going down the line, trying to outdo each other to see who had the worst parents. But when it came my turn I couldn’t really think of anything. My parents gave me a lot of freedom and support. They wanted me to be my own person. They didn’t even take me to church because they wanted me to find religion on my own. They wanted me to be me not a tiny version of them. If I had no complaints then how could I ever think they were bad parents? It’s not like they got stoned and forgot me at the mall or anything.

I was being judgmental of my parents because of what other people told me. My parents are adults, they can make their own decisions. As long as they protect, love and support me, I shouldn’t be too worried about what they do in private.

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