Are All the Moms Microdosing Without Me?

One of my earliest memories is sitting on my mother’s lap—it must have been around 1973—waving plumes of her True cigarette smoke out of my face. She was just over 40, a former career gal turned stay-at-home mom to my brother and me, with a whiskey and soda in her hand by 5 p.m. every day.

It’s been almost 50 years, I’ve got two kids of my own, and it is five o’clock somewhere—or so I tell myself as I pour a glass of wine and survey my domestic hellscape of laundry, deadlines, homework, and general anxiety about, say, the economy, politics, and what the heck we’re going to do about the latest hurricane. What has changed is our mother’s little helper. At least that’s what I’m hearing from my parenting pals: Forget wine. Forget gummies. Try mushrooms. Not the $25-a-pound at the farmers’ market kind, or the fix-everything functional kind. They mean teeny-tiny doses of psychedelic mushrooms.