Snow Boots, Me and Chat GPT

There have been many drawbacks to being a writer but a brand-new one, specific to the particular moment in time, is this: at every holiday gathering, an extended family member is sure to tell you that soon, AI will take your job.

If there’s a good response to this, I haven’t found it yet. I can think of snarky replies and panic-inducing rejoinders, but none of them feel satisfying. So, I’ve decided the best response is to let AI do my job—or try to at least. 

For this dispatch, I was planning on writing about how my youngest daughter, known in these parts as Terza, has always resisted winter footwear. In particular, I was going to tell you about a time when Terza was four, and we took her, right after a blizzard, to see her big sister play the Virgin Mary in the Christmas play in our church basment. 

I visited Chat GPT and typed: “Write a story about a four-year-old girl who refuses to wear her snow boots on the way to see her sister in a Christmas play.” And AI wrote:

“It was a crisp winter morning, and the snow-covered streets sparkled under the soft glow of streetlights.”

It’s not exactly a zinger of a hook, and the language is prosaic to the extreme, not to mention the fact that streetlights don’t tend to glow in the morning but sure, fair enough. 

AI goes on to introduce the Thompson family:

“Little Emma, a four-year-old bundle of energy with golden curls and rosy cheeks, was the youngest member of the Thompson clan. She toddled along in her puffy pink coat, mittens dangling from her sleeves, and a determined look on her face.”

I’ve had sweet tea in Tennessee so sugary it made my teeth ache and my pancreas scream, “No! Please! I’m not up for the job!” A pitcher of that sweet tea is not half as treacle-y as this introduction to our protagonist. 

More to the point (and there’s no way AI could know this, not yet at least) but Terza is not now, and never has been, a bundle of energy. This tired cliche suggests the energy is neat, tidy, contained. It’d be more accurate to say that Terza is a tangle of energy, messy, unpredictable and hard to transport. 

The plot plods along, with the mom trying to put snow boots on Emma, and Emma refusing with a pout and a stamp of her foot. 

“Chuckling softly, Sarah exchanged a knowing glance with her husband, Michael. They had dealt with their fair share of toddler stubbornness.”

Let’s set the record straight. I have never, not once, chuckled softly. I’ve giggled. I’ve guffawed. I’ve chortled so hard, beverages have sprayed out of my nose. But I’ve never chuckled softly, especially not when Terza has refused to put on her snow boots. That’s because it’s not remotely amusing. 

The only possible reason a mother might chuckle softly when her child refuses to put on snow boots is if that mother is high. This may, in fact, be the situation with Sarah. All that toddler stubbornness probably sent her a-running to her local dispensary. 

“With a gentle yet firm touch, Sarah managed to wrangle Emma’s feet into the snow boots, securing the Velcro straps. Emma let out an exaggerated sigh, but she didn’t put up much of a fight.”

I have one question for Sarah: what’s your secret? It seems to be related to the “gentle yet firm touch” but can you offer any more details for us, mere mortals of the human realm, for whom a “gentle yet firm touch” has never worked? 

When I tried to put on Terza’s snow boots the day of the Christmas play, I was not met with an exaggerated sigh. I was met with blood-curdling screams, the kind of screams that, were an actress to emit them in a horror movie, the director might say, “OK, let’s dial it down. It’s a bit much.” When I used my “gentle yet firm touch” to put on Terza’s snow boots, those boots were kicked off so violently, they shot into the air, hitting me in my head. 

Some boots are made for walking. Terza’s boots were made for knocking mothers unconscious. 

After several failed “gentle but firm” attempts, and several failed “just firm” attempts, I surrendered and let Terza wear the only footwear she could bear—off-brand Uggs. I knew it was a long walk to the church and that her feet would get wet and cold, but her sister was going to be the Blessed Mother, and that’s not something that happens everyday. 

“The walk to the community center was a mix of snowball fights, laughter, and the occasional slip on an icy patch.”

This should be replaced with “The walk to the church was a mix of Terza throwing snowballs in her parents’ faces, Terza’s maniacal laughter when they repeatedly reminded her of the rules of snowball throwing with increasing frustration, and slips on icy patches.” 

About halfway there, Terza’s boots became fully saturated with water, and then, very, very cold. This is when she threw herself facedown on the snowy sidewalk and screamed, “I’m freezing! I’m freezing! Help me!” When I suggested that one idea might be to raise her body off the freezing snow, she emitted more of the too-loud-for-horror-movie screams. 

I tried to carry her, but she was a full-sized preschooler and her fury weighed her down, making me sink into the snow drifts. Then she started yelling in my ear, that she could no longer feel her feet. 

“What if she has hypothermia?” I asked my husband. “What are the symptoms of hypothermia?”

“How should I know?” he replied, making me wish I’d listened to my parents and married a doctor instead of a writer. 

“I’m the Blessed Mother!” Seconda yelled. “The Blessed Mother can not be late!”

This was indisputable. 

I handed frozen, furious, possibly hypothermic Terza to David and rushed ahead to get the Virgin Mary to the Birth of Jesus on time. 

“As the play unfolded, Emma’s eyes widened with wonder. She was captivated by the festive costumes, the cheerful music, and most of all, the sight of her big sister on stage. Emily, dressed as a snowflake, beamed as she danced.”

Note to readers: AI has made the unusual (and confusing) choice of naming the sisters Emma and Emily. Thankfully no more siblings are involved, or we might have to contend with Emilia and Emmy-Lou and Emelda. 

It is true that Seconda delivered a captivating performance as the mother of Christ. She had a beatific glow as she cradled the newborn babe and she managed the procession on and off stage without tripping once. 

But Terza did not watch this captivating performance with wide, wonder-struck eyes. I don’t think she watched the performance at all. Instead, after we’d removed her sodden socks and shoes, and ascertained she didn’t have hypothermia, she ran barefoot around the church basement, where a breakfast had been served before the performance. She pilfered cookies from strangers’ tables and accidentally knocked a full Solo cup of orange juice onto a man’s lap while he was busy trying to be captivated by the performance. 

“In that magical moment, surrounded by the joy of the season and the love of her family, Emma forgot all about her initial resistance to the snow boots. After all, Christmas had a way of melting even the tiniest hearts, making room for the joy and wonder of the holiday season.”

I’m confused about the mechanics here. Typically, in hackneyed platitudes, you make room in your heart for joy and wonder. Yet here it seems that the heart and the joy are vying to occupy the same space, so that by melting the heart, it frees up real estate for the joy and wonder. Huh.

But no matter. In real life, hearts were not melted. Only snow trapped in off-brand Uggs was melted, causing those shoes to become instantly (and permanently) ruined. Terza refused to put the wringing-wet shoes back on for the journey back, so we borrowed a dry pair of socks from a kindly parishioner and my husband carried her all the way home. The snow had melted by then, and our other child had ceased to be the Virgin Mary, so it was a little easier. 

I can say with absolute certainty that unlike AI’s protagonist, Terza did not “forget all about her initial resistance to the snow boots,” Even at 11, she still resists winter footwear. Just the other day, when I tried to coax her out of her Crocs-with-socks combination, she told me, “I will not succumb to the system of snow boots!” Same stubbornness, bigger words. 

So, there you have it. Two winter Dispatches from Babybille—one from me, and one from AI. I’ll let you decide if my extended family members are right about the imminent demise of my vocation. 

My take? AI can do my job. It’s just that AI does my job really badly.

But it’s only fair that I give AI the last word. I asked it to write an ending for a Dispatch from Babyville. And, after instantly devouring all the columns I’ve ever written, AI came up with this conclusion. I hope it melts your tiny heart, making room for joy and wonder.

“In closing, let us embrace the chaos, relish the milestones, and savor the fleeting moments of babyhood. Together, we are creating memories that will forever be etched in the collective narrative of Babyville, where the adventure of raising our little ones unfolds with every giggle, every stumble, and every shared knowing glance between fellow parents on this extraordinary journey.”