The first stoner dad I met was my neighbour, Joe.
Joe is in his mid-30s, lives with his wife (a checkout clerk at our local grocery store), and is the primary carer for their two-year-old daughter.
Most mornings, after Joe’s wife leaves for work, he sits in the backyard while his daughter plays, drinking a mug of coffee while languidly smoking a large, pungent joint. The smell wafts in through my office window, but Joe – who, in his dungarees, goatee and trucker cap, looks like something out of a Cheech and Chong movie – has never done anything to hide his morning weed habit. If I catch his eye over the garden fence, he just smiles and waves, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be hauling on a fatty while singing The Wheels on the Bus at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday morning.
At first I judged him. But after observing Joe for more than a year, I must acknowledge he’s a great dad: attentive, cheerful and engaged without hovering or being anxious. His daughter, a smiling, confident little chatterbox, does not show signs of being the neglected child of a chronic drug user. In fact, she seems closer to her father than most kids that age.
– Read the entire article at The Globe and Mail.