While driving my daughter to an appointment this week, she informed me that someone in her school had been suspended. “What happened was she went into the office for something, and they smelled something on her and opened up her backpack. They found a bag of marijuana and a pipe.” My daughter is twelve. Jesus. At least my wife and I have some experience in this area (ahem), and know what to look for. As I mentioned earlier this week, my parents were totally clueless when it came to drugs. My father was born in 1928 in rural Ontario, and my mom was schooled in a Roman Catholic convent: Drugs were simply not a feature of their environment growing up. To them, drugs were something hippies and gang members abused, not something their long haired, tie-dyed son sitting in the next room, laughing his ass off to Monty Python would be involved with. Continue reading