When Rinn went back to school in September of her sophomore year in college, I decided to clean her room and closet to thin the collections of shells, t-shirts, worn out shoes, old magazines, class notes, old index cards from middle school, Happy Meal toys and naked Barbie’s.

While cleaning the shelves in her closet, I came upon one of those books that had been hollowed out for storing things. Inside the book was a familiar looking Ziploc storage back in which lay crumpled in the bottom a herbaceous looking plant substance.

At first, I channeled my own mother. “Bee”, we shall call her, is a God fearing Southern Baptist that always does the right thing and condemns all that is sinful and, well, illegal. Luckily, Rinn was far away in Boston and I had time to release my inner judge and jury.

As always, in these situations, I end up going through what I like to call the five stages of a “mother’s” grief- denial, fear, anger, depression and finally plotting retribution. So I conspired with my partner in crime, my husband. We sat on that information until Thanksgiving Break when our precious child came home.

About Friday or so, Rinn came to me pale-faced and a little sweaty on her upper lip. “What did you do with the books in my closet?” she asked nervously. “What? Oh, do you mean the hollow book with the herb in it?” I inquired. Her face went from horror to a guilty grin. “Um, yes,” she squeaked. “Daddy and I smoked it.” I said. “WHAT?! You did not!” she exclaimed. “But, but…it was mine!” she continued. “I’m pretty sure it was mine since you haven’t had a job in about a year.” I said.

She walked away stunned. Every once in a while she still will ask us if we really smoked it. We just give her a grin.