In two weeks we’ll receive our tax refund — nearly 40,000 kronor each for the world’s most perfect husband and me.

This summer is quite chaotic for our son: first real summer job, trip to Croatia with his girlfriend, IB results, and then the wait for university admissions. Because of all that, we’ve decided on a relatively short trip within Europe this summer.

Which actually suits me perfectly right now. The tax refund will go toward making some nice summer memories instead of new investments.

And honestly… I’m completely fine with that. Because once it’s invested, it’s invested — and right now, these particular kronor are staying out of the market.

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Which, in teenage language, apparently means he “bombed”.

I’m still not fluent in teenager, but I’ve learned the most important phrases the hard way.

I do understand the immense pressure these kids are under. One preparatory year + two intense years of study all condensed into 13 exams that will determine their final IB Diploma result.

Both my husband and I went to what was then considered one of the best municipal schools in the world. Since then, the pendulum has swung from the era of our parents — where physical punishment was routine — all the way to today’s Swedish “flum school”, where everyone passes… even if they can barely read or write.

On a brighter note, my son and his classmates will finally get their grades and learn whether they passed the IB Diploma — just two weeks after graduation.

School really does prepare them for adult life, doesn’t it?

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I’s almost like I jinxed my 80-year-old dad.

Literally one hour after I published my post on X about IT security and how AI is dragging normal people into the tech battlefield, my phone rings. It’s Dad.

He had spent the entire day getting angry calls from strangers accusing him of various things. He was upset, confused, and convinced I could magically fix it over the phone.

After some back and forth I convinced him to go to Täby Centrum. The operator basically shrugged, but the Apple Store was much more helpful. Turns out Dad had been refusing to update his iPhone 16 Pro because “last time I couldn’t find anything afterwards.”

They sent him home with instructions to update. After two more calls from my parents in the evening, I managed to guide them through the update using Mom’s phone as a bridge.

I strongly suspect Dad has been spoofed, which means yesterday’s update probably didn’t solve the real problem.

So yes… it’s only a matter of time before the phone rings again.

Parenting your parents in the age of AI and scams. Exactly what I signed up for.

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The only time I had previously come close to coding was at age 12, when my mother signed us up for a computer course in the early 1980s.

We only managed to attend twice before she discovered it was run by the Social Democrats’ youth organization. We came home talking about “injustice” instead of programming. Classic Socialist BASIC — and that was the end of that.

Forty-plus years later I’m apparently having my second (and possibly last) attempt at coding.

I did exactly what Grok told me and we created several diagrams in Google Colab. It took me an embarrassing number of attempts before anything worked. I’m calling these repeated failures “over-learning” because it sounds better than “I’m slow and technologically challenged.”

My Google Sheets is still the only place I actually feel competent. Everything else is me pretending to be a functional adult who understands what she’s doing.

The learning curve isn’t just steep. It’s humiliating. And yet… here I am.

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I’m far from mastering AI, but I’m getting better. Slowly. Painfully.

One of the biggest lessons so far: you can’t rely on just one AI. They all have different superpowers. My well-known allergy to Google as a search engine remains, yet I’ve fallen head over heels for their productivity suite. Google Sheets, Forms, Colab, and Keep working together have genuinely transformed my documentation workflow. Gemini has been indispensable for this.

I’m even planning to get to know Claude better — I keep hearing he’s excellent at long-form writing and careful reasoning.

It saves time — not for relaxing, of course, but for building more of what I actually want.

Grok is still my absolute favorite (bias fully declared), but he’s not always the right tool for the job. And that’s okay. Using the right AI for the right task is what actually matters.

The hardest part? My own communication. The old myth that women speak 20,000 words a day while men only manage 7,000? I’m starting to think it’s not a myth. I’ve somehow managed to export this trait into writing too. Long, winding, emotional prompts with far too much context.

My husband already knows I talk a lot. I will never admit to him just how much I talk to my AIs.

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One of my least attractive traits is that I absolutely hate change and separations.

This means I sometimes even hesitate before executing perfectly rational sales in the portfolio. In the end though, I always carry them out because I’m guided by facts, not feelings.

However, I’m so emotionally wired that I can’t let our son or my husband leave the apartment without following them all the way to the front door for a proper hug goodbye.
The same thing happens when they come home — I have to be there waiting at the door the second I hear them.

After 32 years my husband has more or less accepted his fate.
Our son, however, still has a way to go before full acceptance.

They just want to walk out the door like normal humans.
I treat every goodbye like they’re deploying to a war zone.

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My parents are financially independent, albeit on the lower end of the scale.

They could easily live comfortably on their state pensions and be completely debt-free if they sold just 70% of their holdings. They could keep both their apartment and summer house without working another day.

They don’t work for the money. Dad works because his DNA is wired with the belief that you have to work. My mother works because she refuses to sit at home waiting for Dad to come home.

They are 78 and 80 years old respectively.

Which makes what I’m about to say even more frustrating.

Until about a year ago, my mother had 100% of her savings sitting in a non-interest-bearing account. For many years now, Dad has received our help with his investments.

The day before yesterday, she casually mentioned that she had “found” another 55,000 kronor she had forgotten about.

To which I exclaimed in pure despair:“Why should you work — but not your damn money?!”

It’s like having a second teenager in the house… except this one is 78 years old and significantly worse with money.

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I was still pretty pleased with myself for creating my two little “mini apps” — simple solutions that fit my workflow like a glove.

So pleased, in fact, that I couldn’t resist bragging about them to the world’s (maybe not) most perfect teenager.

He got curious and asked to try them.
Proud as a rooster, I handed him my phone.

Before he had even opened the first one, he exclaimed loudly: “This isn’t an app… it’s Google Forms!”
And handed the phone straight back to me.

The brief millisecond of admiration I had imagined from my son was crushed faster than my husband says “I’ll do it later” when I ask him to fix something around the house.

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Just over a year ago, our son – then 17 – met his girlfriend. Because of the war in Ukraine she lives in her own apartment right next to their school. Gradually he started spending more and more time there. Last winter we let go of the rule that he could only sleep over on weekends. My husband reminded me that if we held on too tight, we risked pushing him away even more. He is turning 19 soon and is, in the eyes of the law, an adult.

He still texts good morning every single day and good night every evening. He comes home one or two days a week, and we get to see him. My husband is proud that we’ve raised an independent young man who can stand on his own two feet. I have… fallen apart. The house feels so empty. I cried every day for almost two weeks.

Right now he is in the middle of his IB exams – two weeks down, two weeks to go. This week, with his economics exam coming up, he needed to focus extra hard on studying, so he chose to come home and sleep here over the weekend. It has been wonderful. I’ve heard his laughter from his room when he plays with his friends online, and it’s the best sound in the world.

I’ve learned not to nag about small things. I’ve learned that he needs space. It was a brutally hard lesson, but a necessary one.

You have never truly experienced this particular kind of heartbreak until your child – the person you have loved most in the entire world – starts building their own life without you. Raising someone to not need you is life’s cruelest and most beautiful paradox.

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Today we’re making what I really hope is our final investment in the world’s most perfect teenager’s schooling.

He graduates high school in June.When I paid the spring 2026 tuition back in early November, I naively thought we were basically done. Sweet summer child.

Graduation cap, champagne breakfast, boat trip, photo shoot, and a bunch of other things I’ve either forgotten or actively chosen to repress.

Now the latest (and hopefully last) item on the list is the graduation costume. We’ve received very specific written instructions, so today we’re heading out to hunt for something that satisfies both the teenager’s taste and the school’s strict demands.

Because nothing says “you’re finally an adult” quite like spending thousands of kronor on an outfit you’ll wear for approximately four hours… just so the photos look good.

Parenting in 2026 is just financial self-harm with extra steps. Send help. Or wine. Preferably both.

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