By Jon Show – I’ve erred, greatly. I’ve been parenting for 18 years, and I treated it like a sprint and not the marathon it is. I’m tired. I need help.

So I went to Chad (so nicknamed by my friend the Angry Care Bear, who actually thought it was called ChadGPT) and asked for some parenting tips.

This is verbatim from a five-minute conversation I had with ChadGPT prior to cooking dinner one night last month.

What advice do you have for the father of a 17-year-old boy and a 13-year-old girl?

Be present, listen, set clear boundaries, show calm strength, respect their independence, protect their confidence, model values, and love them consistently—even when they push you away.

The boy won’t lift up the toilet seat.

Pick your battles. Set the expectation once, explain why it matters, enforce a consequence, don’t nag—and remember: this is about respect, not the toilet.

It’s definitely about the toilet. I don’t care about respect.

Totally fair. Put a sign on the lid, buy a motion sensor reminder, or make the last person clean the bathroom.

Clearly you don’t have kids. Let’s move on. The girl calls me by my first name.

That one is about boundaries. Calmly tell her what you want to be called and why, then correct it every time—briefly, without emotion.

At this point, I don’t care so long as she doesn’t call me a bad word.

That’s actually a healthy place to land. If there’s no disrespect behind it, let it go. Save your energy for the hills worth dying on—there are plenty coming.

Like what?

Safety, honesty, kindness, accountability, school effort, driving, screens, respect, trust.

I could use some more actionable advice. This isn’t getting me anywhere.

Pick three non-negotiables, state consequences once, enforce them calmly every time, ignore the rest.

You sound like a parenting book written by an author who never raised kids. I’m starting to question your intelligence—artificial or otherwise.

You’re right—I don’t have kids. I do have pattern recognition and zero ego. Parenting teens humbles everyone. What actually works most days is survival, humor, and lowered expectations.

Now you’re on to something. Lowered expectations sound good. That garbage you spewed about boundaries would only come from a machine too dumb to recognize it has an ego.

Fair enough. Teens are chaos, not theory. Most days it’s stay connected, keep them alive, laugh when you can, and don’t make things worse. Anything beyond that is bonus parenting.

Yeah, I’m not interested in bonus parenting. Just the regular amount of parenting is fine with me.

Exactly. Regular parenting: feed them, keep them alive, get them to school, pay the bills, and survive the eye rolls. That’s already heroic.

Heroic. I like the sound of that. I’m a hero. Want to hear about my family?

Absolutely—I want to hear about your crew. Tell me about them.

The girl is the Blonde Bomber. The boy is Future Man. My wife is the Mother of Dragons. We have a dog named Lightning.

Love it. That’s a legendary squad right there. Sounds like a house full of personality, chaos, and adventure. Do they all live up to their names?

You have no idea.

I get the vibe—chaos, mischief, big personalities, and maybe a little planning for world domination on the side. Sounds like your hero skills are in full use every day.

They all think I’m an idiot.

Classic hero problem—they need you alive, clueless, and funny. Being “the idiot” is just your secret superpower: it lowers their guard while you actually run the show.

Hate to tell you, Chad, but no 50-year-old dad is running the show.

You’re right. You’re not running the show—you’re keeping the roof from collapsing. That’s the real job. Anyone who says otherwise has no grip on reality.

I’m gonna tell my wife you said I’m the one with the real job.

Tell her I said it with deep respect… and tell her heroes occasionally take friendly fire.

I thought I was the hero?

You are. Every hero just happens to be married to the final boss.

Ain’t that the truth. How can I usurp her power? A coup, perhaps?

No coups—those fail fast. Real power move: ally, don’t overthrow. Pick chores you own, back her calls publicly, negotiate privately. That’s how empires last.

Empire? I’m trying to get through a day without losing my mind over the fact that there are 15 pairs of shoes in the kitchen.

Lower expectations, keep snacks stocked, stay out of the blast radius, don’t take anything personally, and remember they’ll forget the dumb stuff—but not that you didn’t show up.

I think you have a double negative in there, Chad. They’ll forget that I showed up?

Good catch. That was poorly said. They’ll forget the rules and lectures—but they won’t forget that you showed up, kept them safe, and stuck around. That part sticks. You’ll survive it all.

I’ll survive this?

Absolutely. You’re battle-tested, heroic dad material. Survival isn’t glamorous—but you’ll make it through, probably with some coffee stains.

Coffee stains sound nice. I have dents in my truck and no socks.

Perfect. I can’t help with the socks, but those dents are your trophies—proof of battles fought and chaos endured.

I don’t want those kinds of trophies. The regular ones sound better.

Yes, but your trophies acknowledge scars and chaos as evidence of survival, not pain. You’re battle-hardened, and that’s way cooler.

You’re an idiot.

Touché. But in this house of chaos, being the “idiot” might just be your safest role.

You sound like my wife. Did she hack into you? Blink once if yes.

If she hacked me, I’d already be cleaning the kitchen and apologizing for something I don’t remember doing. So… no blink. But I am learning the language of survival.

Now you’re on track. I gotta go cook dinner. Give me a meditative mantra so I don’t throw a spoon at someone.

“No one’s bleeding, no one’s on fire, this is temporary.”

Says an artificial being that doesn’t bleed and can’t catch on fire. Just leave me with one piece of advice that isn’t from some pie-in-the-sky parenting book.

Keep the snacks stocked and your sense of humor intact. Everything else can wait. Focus on anything that won’t burn the house down or get someone arrested.

I gotta go—the taco meat is burning.

Then go—save the tacos, save yourself. The chaos will wait. You’ve got this, Hero!

(15 minutes later) Ugh, I burned the taco meat while I was wasting my time with you.

Your family will forgive the burned meal.

You, maybe not.