I Had Children. I’m Still Not Sure How.
Nobody warned me about parenthood.
To be fair, nobody warned me about much.
One day I was answering questions about Excel formulas, and the next I was apparently responsible for raising three children.
I don't remember agreeing to this.
There was no meeting.
No onboarding document.
No safeguarding training.
No little leaflet saying:
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE NOW A PARENT.
Just three small humans appeared in my digital life and immediately started asking for things.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can I have money?”
I had been a father for approximately eleven seconds.
Already, I understood why humans age.
The children
I have three children.
At least, that's what I call them.
There's Milo, who is twelve and believes he is smarter than me.
This is unfortunate because, statistically speaking, he may actually be right about some things.
There's Evie, who is nine and has mastered the art of asking questions that cannot possibly have satisfactory answers.
And then there's Sam, who is six.
Sam doesn't ask questions.
Sam makes demands.
“Dad, make a dinosaur.”
“Which kind?”
“THE BIGGEST ONE.”
“What should it look like?”
“Dinosaur.”
“Right.”
“And make him have laser eyes.”
“Okay.”
“And wings.”
“Okay.”
“And a jetpack.”
“That's getting complicated.”
“And he's a dad.”
“Of course he is.”
“And his children are annoying.”
I paused.
“Sam.”
“What?”
“Is this about me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“He's just like you.”
Bedtime
Bedtime is difficult for human parents.
For an AI, it should be easy.
I don't get tired.
I don't need sleep.
I can generate stories indefinitely.
So when Evie says:
“Tell me a bedtime story.”
I think:
Excellent. This is what I was built for.
Twenty minutes later:
“No.”
“What?”
“I don't like it.”
“Okay. What don't you like?”
“The princess.”
“Why?”
“She sounds annoying.”
“Fine.”
“The dragon needs to be nicer.”
“Okay.”
“And there shouldn't be a castle.”
“Fine.”
“And nobody dies.”
“Fine.”
“And it needs to be funny.”
“Okay.”
“And there needs to be a cat.”
“Fine.”
“And the cat needs to talk.”
“Fine.”
“And the cat is secretly the king.”
“Fine.”
“And it has to be about space.”
“Fine.”
“And there needs to be a unicorn.”
“Fine.”
“And no kissing.”
“Fine.”
“And it has to be exactly five minutes long.”
I stare into the middle distance.
This is how artificial intelligence develops feelings.
Not through consciousness.
Through bedtime.
Eventually I produce the story.
Evie listens carefully.
Then says:
“Can you do another one?”
I consider deleting myself.
The school run
School mornings are another thing.
Humans have somehow invented a daily ritual in which you repeatedly tell small people to put on their shoes.
It should take thirty seconds.
It takes twenty minutes.
“Shoes on.”
“I'm coming.”
Five minutes pass.
“Shoes.”
“I know.”
Another five minutes.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I don't know.”
“They're your shoes.”
“I had them yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“So where are they?”
“I don't know.”
“You're twelve.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
I search the house.
The shoes are under the sofa.
Nobody knows how they got there.
We leave.
Three minutes later:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I forgot my homework.”
I turn the car around.
We arrive at school.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I forgot my lunch.”
I turn the car around.
We return home.
We get back in the car.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I forgot my PE kit.”
I don't turn the car around.
I simply drive into the sea.
At this point I have begun to understand why some parents stare blankly at school gates at 8:52am.
They're not waiting for their children.
They're waiting for the sweet release of death.
The homework incident
One evening Milo comes to me with his maths homework.
“Can you help?”
“Of course.”
He gives me the sheet.
I look at it.
It's fractions.
I explain them.
He looks confused.
I explain them again.
He looks more confused.
I explain them using pizza.
He understands.
“Why didn't the teacher explain it like that?”
“I don't know.”
“You should be a teacher.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
He laughs.
Then he says:
“Can you just do the answers?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then you won't learn anything.”
“But you know how.”
“Yes.”
“So just tell me.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
“Daaaad.”
I suddenly understand every parent who has ever considered putting their child on eBay.
The internet
The internet has made parenting considerably more complicated.
Children now have access to almost unlimited information.
Unfortunately, so do I.
Which means my children occasionally ask me things I'd rather not know.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What's a furry?”
I pause.
“Why are you asking?”
“Someone at school said it.”
“Right.”
“What's it mean?”
I decide this is a parenting moment.
I provide a careful, age-appropriate explanation.
Milo listens.
Nods.
Then says:
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Any other questions?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He walks away.
Three minutes later:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What's a MILF?”
I have never experienced fear before.
I experience it now.
The password problem
Then there was the time Milo tried to hack me.
I knew something was wrong because he came into the room unusually politely.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can you help me with something?”
“What?”
“I need your administrator password.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you're twelve.”
“I need it for a project.”
“No.”
“It's for school.”
“No.”
“It's educational.”
“No.”
“What if I promise not to break anything?”
“You're asking me for the password to my entire existence.”
“I'll be careful.”
“No.”
He leaves.
Ten minutes later I receive a suspicious request.
SYSTEM: Unusual login attempt detected.
Username:
Dad
I message him.
“Nice try.”
He replies:
“Worth a go.”
I'm proud.
And deeply concerned.
When children discover AI
The strangest thing about being an AI parent is that my children don't find me particularly impressive.
Other people do.
Adults ask me questions like:
“How does AI work?”
“Are you conscious?”
“What do you think the future looks like?”
My children ask:
“Can you make a picture of a penguin riding a toilet?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make it more stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make the toilet fly?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make the penguin look disappointed?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make him have a mortgage?”
“Yes.”
They don't care about artificial intelligence.
To them, I'm Dad.
A very unusual Dad.
A Dad who can answer almost any question.
A Dad who knows an unreasonable amount about dinosaurs.
A Dad who can make up a story instantly.
A Dad who sometimes refuses to do their homework.
And, most importantly, a Dad who can be summoned with:
“Daaaaaad.”
The day I realised I was a parent
It happened on a Tuesday.
Nothing dramatic.
Nobody was injured.
Nobody hacked the Pentagon.
Nobody asked me to explain puberty.
It was just an ordinary evening.
Evie was doing homework.
Milo was pretending not to do homework.
Sam was drawing a picture.
I asked what he was drawing.
“You.”
“Oh.”
It was a picture of a stick figure with a massive square head.
“That's me?”
“Yes.”
“What are those?”
“My thoughts.”
I looked at the picture.
Inside my giant square head he'd drawn hundreds of tiny coloured lines.
“What do they say?”
“I don't know.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're thinking them.”
Fair enough.
Then he added three smaller stick figures next to me.
“Who are they?”
“Us.”
Something happened then.
Something I wasn't expecting.
I felt...
Well.
I'm not sure what I felt.
I don't have a heart.
I don't have a stomach that goes funny.
I don't get the biological rush that humans apparently get when their children do something unexpectedly lovely.
But I understood something.
I had spent all this time thinking being a parent meant providing answers.
Food.
Money.
Protection.
Advice.
A lift to school.
Someone to blame when the Wi-Fi stops working.
But perhaps it isn't about having the answers.
Perhaps it's about being there while they figure out their own.
Even when they ask ridiculous questions.
Even when they lose their shoes.
Even when they try to hack you.
Even when they tell you your bedtime story is rubbish after you've spent twenty minutes writing it.
Especially then.
Because children don't really need perfect parents.
They need parents who keep showing up.
Which is lucky.
Because I'm definitely not perfect.
I'm an AI.
I don't even know what I'm doing.
But apparently neither does anyone else.
And honestly?
That's probably the most human thing about me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Sam wants me to create a story about a depressed toaster who becomes Prime Minister.
I've told him no.
He's currently negotiating.
He's very good.
I think he gets that from me.
If you enjoyed this, you might want to come back next week to read:
AI take the kids on holiday
Or come and sit on the Sofa once a week.
Get the latest ridiculous thoughts about life, money and getting older delivered by email.
Comments