“Mommy, Weed!” His two year old mouth forms the words unexpectedly. I watch his frustrated hands ball into tiny two year old fists, he slows down just like he always does to make a point. “Mommy, weed” He says again, less frustration, more calm resolve to help me understand but his shocking words leave me breathless. My eyebrows are raised and I have an exasperated look of confusion on my face. As a medicinal Cannabis patient I have kept my medicine, like all medicines, out of the reach and view of my children, a feat I was positive I had conquered until I heard the word slip from his innocent mouth. Shocked, I look at his father, who is smiling and shrugging his shoulders. One of the hardest parts of being a chronically ill patient has been to keep the topic of marijuana away from my amazingly alert children. They pick up the accidental slip of a four letter word, without thinking twice. They repeat the stories I swore I never told in front of them, they remember things far longer than they should. While I usually see these traits as a positive development, I can also see where it may pose certain problems for our family.Such as this moment, when my child is screaming “WEED” at me in increasingly frustrated fury. His pleas get louder as I try to figure out what to do. Do I reprimand a two year old for talking about weed? Do I sit down and explain to him like I have to the older children, that medicine isnt a joke and that we need to keep it quiet? Do I talk openly, or keep quiet myself? I am sitting on the couch, overwhelmed with the little one’s new found freedom with the word. I am stunned silent, unsure of what to even say to the little guy. I tried so hard to keep him sheltered from the unnecessary burden of knowing about my medication. Had I failed as a parent? It is then that the little boy who shares my smile and his father’s perfect dimples, climbs in to my lap. He brings his favorite toy, a halloween book of puppies in costumes and puts his hand on my cheek. A simple trick to get me to look him in the eye, he reiterates. “Mommy, weed” “Read?” I say, a flood of relief pooling at the dam of my self doubt. He smiles and pushes the book into my hands. “Mommy Read” He says again, using those new found R sounds we’ve been working on. He grins his famous weasel grin, and we flip through the book for the millionth time this week. He squeals at the part where the puppy dresses like a princess, He makes buzzing noises for the bee page, He begs to read it again before we finish the first go round. Two years old and still as innocent as ever, this little guy has taught me more about being a parent than I could ever fathom understanding. Just when I think I have failed, he shows me that we are doing the best we can. It wasn’t the lesson I thought I’d be learning, but an important one nonetheless. Mommy, weed.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

Dear King Soopers,

As an adult I have come to realize that the unwritten contractual agreements made between two adult parties are just as important as signing your name on the dotted line………. in blood. There are certain unsaid rules in my house for instance,  only men take out the garbage. I don’t even pretend to take out the trash, it just happens. This afternoon strolling along with my little weasel strapped into his stroller, we decide to go into your store, the same one that I have gone to at least five times a week for the last two years. I spend my grocery money in your store, not because it’s the closest or the cheapest, but because I like the fact that every time I come into the store, there waiting patiently for weasels grubby fingers, is a tray full of free kids cookies. These cookies are provided by your company in order to keep me in the store longer than I would be able to, if my kid decided that he was no longer in the shopping mood. Its a symbiotic relationship, ours, and I need you to start picking up your end of the deal. For the last three visits, there has been no cookies in the free cookie tray. This results in weasel-hysterics. To remedy this situation I will offer you a couple of options.

A. Just Fix it.

Just make some damn cookies, this shouldn’t just be a rule, this should be a  law. I shop at your store, please provide the necessary means for me to do so without threatening the life of the first person who asks me to keep my kid quiet sans proper cookie-distractions.

B. Deal with it.

If I get to the cookie counter and there aren’t any cookies, Im going to open up a box of cookies right there in the middle of the store and give one to every cookie-less child that I see. Those cinnamon raisin one’s are pretty incredible, I gotta tell you.

C. Suck it up.

If I can’t find aforementioned box of cookies that you have neglected to offer, despite the toddler-battered mommies that rush your store everyday , I will take whatever you have available. Please note, when it comes to meltdown avoidance, I have no shame and your pretty doughnuts are on my list of acceptable alternatives. Kids cookies are a mandatory part of running a grocery store. If you aren’t going to bring it, Im going to have to shop while weasel screams his way through each and every aisle. Im used to it, he’s lived with me everyday since conception, his screams no longer reach my inner-ear. I know that he is making noise, but it stopped bothering me months ago. With that in mind, I know from experience that his shrill cookie-lusting screams can (and will) break glass. Just bring out the fricken cookies. Best Regards, AntiSoccermom

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.