It started with a laugh I didn’t recognize. I was waiting at the pickup line, the usual chaos of car doors and backpacks, when a cluster of parents huddled around a phone near the kindergarten gate. One of the dads was grinning, holding the screen up like a trophy.
“Watch this,” he said. “The app makes her do a little dance. It’s hilarious.”
I leaned over out of curiosity. The video on his phone showed a little girl in a school uniform, spinning awkwardly with a cartoon crown on her head. It took me a second to register the face. It was my daughter. Only she wasn’t spinning. She had never done that dance, and she doesn’t own a crown.
He had used one of those AI apps, the kind that takes a single photo and animates it into a silly clip. He meant it as harmless fun. He had probably also made one of his own kid, and maybe of a teacher or two. The group around him was chuckling, but my stomach tightened.
I didn’t make a scene. I just said, “Hey, could you send me that? No, actually, could you delete it?” He looked confused. I added, “She doesn’t like that. It feels weird to her.” That was a lie—she hadn’t seen it. But it got the point across without an argument. He shrugged, said “Sure, man,” and turned to show someone else. I think he deleted it, or maybe he didn’t. I don’t know.
That afternoon, I sat down with my daughter and showed her the basics. Not to scare her, but to explain that someone can make a picture of you doing something you never did. She’s seven, so I kept it simple: “That app can make it look like you’re dancing when you’re not. If anyone ever shows you something like that, you can tell them it’s fake and walk away.” She nodded and asked if it was a cartoon. That was the end of it for her. Not for me.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this isn’t a stranger-danger problem. It’s a neighbor-problem. The parents who share school carpool photos, birthday party group shots, and holiday concert pictures are now carrying around tools that can put any child into any scene. And most of them don’t think twice about it. The app is just a toy to them, the way filters were ten years ago.
The distinction matters. A filter changes your face on a live camera. GenAI can create content that didn’t happen, and then that content can be shared beyond the moment. The other parent didn’t see it as anything serious. To him, it was a digital cartoon. To me, it was the first time someone had taken control of my child’s image without her consent.
That night, I talked to my wife and we came up with a few ground rules. Not dramatic ones, just practical lines to hold. First, if another parent shows us an AI creation involving our kid, we ask them to delete it immediately and explain why in a simple sentence: “We’re keeping images of her to real moments only.” No lecture about ethics. The vaguer you stay, the less likely you’ll get pulled into an argument. If they push back, and some will, I just say “It’s a thing for us” and change the subject.
Second, we changed how we share photos. We used to post school event pictures to a private group chat. Now we send them directly to specific parents, and we avoid full-face shots when possible. That’s not a solution—anyone can screenshot—but it reduces the raw material floating around. The less high-resolution face data you offer, the fewer options people have.
Third, we talked to our daughter’s teacher. Not to complain, but to ask if the school had a policy on AI-generated school photos. The teacher admitted they hadn’t thought about it. That conversation is still open. We didn’t demand action; we just put the question in the air. Sometimes that’s enough to start a guideline.
The tricky part is that none of this is easy to enforce. You can’t stop another parent from using an app. You can’t check their phone at a school picnic. What you can do is make your expectation visible. When a parent hears you say “Please don’t do that with her face” once, they’re less likely to do it again—not because they agree, but because they don’t want to feel awkward. That awkwardness is your real tool.
I’ve also started paying attention to what my daughter sees on other kids’ phones. Some games and social video apps now include face-swapping or animation features. A child can make a fake clip of a classmate in seconds, and they often think it’s funny because they don’t understand the effect on the receiver. That’s where the grown-up conversation needs to go beyond protection. It has to include the child who’s using the app. If your kid is the one making the joke, that’s a teaching moment too. I’m not sure we talk enough about that side.
The other week, the same dad approached me at a soccer game. He said, “Hey, sorry about the video thing. I saw a news story about those deepfakes in schools. I didn’t really think about it.” I appreciated that. He didn’t need to grovel. I just said, “No worries. It’s all new.” Then we watched the game. That’s where we are now. Not fully settled, but not hostile.
What’s still uncertain is the bigger question of consent. These tools are only getting faster and more realistic. My kid is at an age where she’s learning that a photo can be a lie, but most of her classmates are too young to grasp that. So the job falls on us. Not to become paranoid, but to be quietly consistent. When you see a fake image of your child, name it. Ask for it to be deleted. Tell the other parent why. Most will stop because they honestly didn’t mean harm. A few will roll their eyes. That’s okay.
I still don’t know if I handled the first incident the right way. Maybe I was too lenient. Maybe I’ll need to be firmer next time. But I’ve decided that my job isn’t to police every app or to anticipate every possible use. It’s to show my daughter that her face belongs to her, even in a digital space. That starts with me saying something, even when it feels awkward. Especially when it feels awkward.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » It started with a laugh I didn’t recognize