learning experience.

Every single day around here is a learning experience. For example, last night I was greeted at my bedroom door by two of my little lovelies, looking fairly pitiful. Mr. Gatsby was standing about three yards behind them, wearing his disgusted face and his arms crossed, prodding them to confess. “Well go on, tell Mom what you did,” he says. 

Fabulous. My eyes revert back to the two very guilty girls staring back at me. I also see what I now know to be a “weed bowl.” (Like I said, I learn something around here every single day.) If you are like me and don’t know what the heck that is, consult the inter-webs. Short of taking away this newly learned about gadget, I’m really at a loss.  I mean, don’t smoke *anything* in my house is a pretty well known rule around here.  Much like the rule about no food outside of the kitchen, it seems no one is listening to. Beyond asking them not to do it, giving them a speech about being respectful of me and respectful of themselves, I have no other consequences to really dish out.  I’m a firm believer in letting natural consequences work their magic.  In this particular case, I feel like the primary natural consequences mostly involves the certain death of whatever brain cells remain after all the prior drug use they have exposed their little bodies to. Not really sure that I will even still be around by the time that catches up to them. Fairly recent addition to the family, I call her Pumpkin, (I don’t have any idea why), is the proud owner of the “weed bowl”.  While she may have contributed the drug paraphernalia to this particular circus event, another kiddo, whom I’m not even going to take the time to nickname as she has already left the building, provided the consumables. If you are wondering where she gets her drugs from, it happens at school. It happens for just about everyone at school. As the years go by, I become more and more convinced that for some, scoring crap they aren’t supposed to have is the primary reason to even go to school. Seems most drug swapping goes on in the bathroom, unless you are really brazen and make your exchange right in the hallway in front of security cameras.  (Yes, I have one of those kiddos, too.)

So the house smells like weed, Mr. Gatsby is disgruntled, and Hubby has been woken up from his slumber and is now very aggressively asking what is going on. There is the second “fabulous” I whisper in my head this particular evening. Hubby is grumpy when woken up. Hubby is even MORE grumpy when he is woken due to some weed related festivities. Because I’m irritated, tired, and maybe suffering from secondary brain cell death due to repeated exposure, I responded to him with, “Oh my goodness, I don’t know, stop yelling and let me handle it before I have to pop you in the nose.” There you have it, another time in which the thoughts in my head managed to escape my mouth. Thankfully, while he is grumpy, he is also groggy and I think it may have gone right over his head. He retreated, and I wandered downstairs to give what I think is an obligatory speech about not doing dumb things. One kiddo interrupted said speech to let me know that she would prefer not to discuss it in front of everyone.  Ahh, yes, I can appreciate that.  However, maybe that thought should have crossed her mind before smoking pot in a house full of people. I’m just saying, the degree of criminal sophistication is pretty low here.

I head back to my bedroom, with my new weed bowl. Exciting.

Thanks to my continued relationship with Daytime Emmy Nominee, I can tell you that the best way to clean out your weed bowls at home is to use rubbing alcohol.  (Another new fact I have learned.) You’re welcome. So glad I have access to Daytime Emmy Nominee and her pool of drug knowledge.  I’m also glad she is so concerned about my safe smelling like pot that she wants to make sure I know how to properly clean said weed bowl before I store it.  Yes, I’m storing it.  Why, am I storing it? Because this particular drug paraphernalia has “sentimental value.” I said what I said.