I can tell how my husband's work is going. If the day has been fruitful, he returns home crowing about artificial intelligence. "You wouldn't believe it! What this tech can do...I'm starting to understand why all the new AI factories require so much energy....and produce so much pollution!" If the work is not going well, then my daughter sometimes finds herself in the crosshairs. "You're squirming too much," says my spouse to his child. I know something is off when Marc--eminently sensible--suggests to a Pre-K student that she is "squirming too much." The other night, like Marge Simpson, I made some tough choices. My daughter had devoured a bag of spicy Doritos right before bed--so, at 2am, she spat up a stream of gooey orange liquid. I ministered to her needs without my glasses, and I briefly told myself that she had coughed up blood. I was suddenly in a garret, tending to Mimi in "La Boheme." This frightened me; by instinct, I...