I’d been playing around with ChatGPT one evening, asking it to write some poems. The writing was as expected: generic, humorless, emotionless, and oddly formal. But amid its stiff prose were glimmers of beauty.
This beauty haunted me. When I closed my eyes at night, I could see it upending my career in a year. Writing has always been there for me.
I’ve written during yoga sessions, during pap smears, at the beach. I decided if AI was coming for my career, at least there were still parts of my life it couldn’t touch: my marriage, my young daughter. Or could it? So much of parenting a young child is physical: Breastfeeding, kissing, snuggling.
But other parts are tactical: scheduling, meal planning, choosing activities. AI didn’t have a body (yet), but it could still plan; it could organize; it could offer ideas on soothing a sobbing kid. Advertisement Though my husband is a wonderful, loving dad, he works in another state, so I spend a lot of time parenting alone.
I wondered how ChatGPT could fare as a coparent. From using it during writing, I realized ChatGPT, more than Google or Dr. Becky’s Instagram stories , could get to know you; it could grasp your worries and needs.
Plus, my friends were probably sick of me panic-texting them every five minutes asking if my baby could die from eating the carpet. Maybe ChatGPT could preserve my shaky standing in my college group text. I started with a basic prompt: How could I get my sweet daughter to stop screaming inconsolabl.