I ask ChatGPT my unanswered pregnancy questions

I want to ChatGPT my body, ask what’s happening on the inside as this expanding planet persists. 

My stomach skin stretches blue veins into view. I circle the whole orb of it with handfuls of lemon-scented almond oil, wipe what’s left along the life lines of my palms onto my elbows. 

I ask ChatGPT for an estimated time of arrival based on my baby’s due date, my age, our shared health history, other available biometrics. And, technology-entitled human that I am, I expect real-time updates via text message like those of my Uber Eats breakfast – “Order arriving soon!”

I keep it light, ask, “What will the baby looks like?” as his head tucks deeper toward the drop door. ChatGPT can “illustrate a dreamy, peaceful newborn with features inspired by cultural roots” but “can’t generate true-to-life images.” Notably, the latter conflicts with its content policy. 

Instead I prod, “Why did he kick my femoral artery with such force when I crossed my legs?” Had my position restricted blood flow? Held back the taste of my pesto-dressed savory crêpe? 

“ChatGPT, will he think like me? Will he do what I like to do, or not at all?” Will he too be drawn to back patios on cool cloud-covered nights to sit in partial darkness and stare into the sky in seek of counsel from discrete stars? Will he, like me, not just crave but require the outdoor night’s quiet to re-circuit before new days begin?

Or, perhaps he’ll be like my husband, the kind who golfs, talks, and comes home feeling satiated, already innately full. 

I watch the cursor dot pulse as ChatGPT considers its response, thinks harder, computes. It is eager to have an answer, hesitant now to logically conclude.

In its own way, it nods, tells me: “What a beautiful ache held in that wondering.” We decide to move on.

“How will I know if his name is a fit?” I urge. 

“Does it feel soft and honest when you say it at 3 a.m.?” 

“ChatGPT, touché. Touché, touché,” I say, imagining it as a captivating baby shower guest, name card etched in cursive and propped atop a ceramic salad plate, a single stem of baby’s breath tucked beneath, maybe the first flower it’s attempted to smell, not just see.  

I continue my daily pondering. The AI compliments me for the creative questions. And for a moment, we are not master and tool but tipsy friends – our lips loose with possibility, not knowing what the other will say next. And we relish in it.