As the sunlight begins to peek through the window, a rustling sound wakes me up. I check the time on the phone by my pillow—just past 5:40 a.m. I heave my heavy body up and lean toward the source of the sound. In that moment, the most beautiful smile in the world greets me. And so, a day in the life of a dad developer begins.
I ask what my little one has been up to alone, lie down beside them, and massage their arms and legs. Before long, as if they've discovered a fun toy, they laugh and land a spike on my face with their palm. After taking a few minutes of that, I lay them down next to their mom. Then, watching them spike mom's face too, I smile and leave the room to get ready for work.
I quickly wash up and finish breakfast with a boiled egg, soy milk, and yogurt topped with nuts. I get dressed and glance at the clock—6:50! The dilemma begins. Before I leave at 7, I have to choose one of two things: play with my child for ten minutes, or wipe down the baby mat and lay out the toys for my wife, who has a hard day ahead. Today's choice: wipe the baby mat in advance and set out the toys! If I have a little time left, I wash the bottles used during the night. Then I go back to the room, say "Listen to mom!", say goodbye to my wife and child, and head out.
To commute at a relaxed pace, factoring in transfers, I leave home around 7. It's about a seven-stop distance, but since it requires two transfers, the time spent on the subway isn't that long. On the train, I briefly read development-related articles I saved for later or posts I've organized on my blog. Because the ride is short, whenever my focus breaks during a transfer, I read the news or binge webtoons I'd been putting off. Passing the time this way, I arrive in Pangyo, the city of developers.
From entering the office building to sitting down at my desk, I think, "What did I do yesterday, or last week?" and organize what I need to do today. Arriving at 8, I see three or four people who came in earlier than me sharing the same space, and I sit down wondering when on earth they get to work. I turn on my laptop, go through countless logins, and check my mail and the threads I've been mentioned in. Then I review the backlog of reviews and the work in progress, and keep at it until 9. Personally, I think this is the most focused stretch of my day—time to work alone.
At 9, people around me start trickling in one by one. This is when I stand up to stretch, head to the snack corner to grab a drink and a light snack, and return to my desk. For about another hour, I pound away at the keyboard and focus on work. These days, most of that typing is conversation with AI while staring at several terminal windows. To show off being a developer, I tried out various keyboards and even built a custom one. But now that I no longer write code directly, the thought that my keyboard isn't doing its job leaves a bitter taste—much like the reality developers face.
After the 11 o'clock daily scrum, I do a bit of work with the scattered focus before lunch, then head off to the gym. Wanting to be a dependable dad, I worked out hard during my parental leave, and believing the road to becoming a dependable dad is endless, I'm still hard at it. The lunchtime workout is the most frantic part of my day. In that short window I skip even stretching, quickly finish exercising and showering, and rush to the cafeteria. To get back by 1, I have no say in the lunch menu. I check which line is shortest, grab my food, wolf it down, and return to my desk.
In the afternoon, strangely, there always seem to be a lot of meetings. I attend meetings here and there, and when there are none, I repeat the keyboard pounding just like in the morning. Between tasks, I open Family Album, a family photo-sharing app, to check the photos my wife has uploaded. During my parental leave, if no photos went up on Family Album, calls would come in from both sets of parents. Behind worried words like "Why are there no photos today?" and "Is everything okay?" came pressure to hurry up and post photos and videos, and my wife and I would scramble to take and upload them. Now that I'm the one going to work, on days when no photos appear on Family Album, I text my wife, "There aren't any photos today?"—and I've come to understand how our parents felt.
Before I know it, it's 5 o'clock, quitting time. To make my transfer connections, I leave right on the dot at 5 and board the subway. On the way home, just like the morning commute, I cycle through articles, news, and webtoons as I head home. I arrive, open the door, shout "Dad's home!", head to the living room, and meet the most beautiful smile in the world I'd seen that morning. I toss my bag aside and run to my child. For the two hours until they fall asleep, I feed them, give them a bath, and read a book before bed. While one of us puts the child to sleep, the other prepares dinner. We eat, then wash the dishes and the bottles that piled up over the day. After a shower it's 9, and for an hour before bed we watch Netflix and YouTube and chat about this and that.
Bracing for the nightly battle, I set the morning alarm around 10 and go to bed. Somewhere between 11 and midnight, a mighty wail jolts me awake and I bolt upright. My wife dashes to the living room to make formula while I hold and soothe the baby, waiting for the bottle. I hand the baby to my wife, who's seated and ready to feed, and disappear from view so as not to disturb them. After one sip of formula comes a choking sound and the crying erupts again. We soothe the baby back to sleep and try to fall asleep ourselves. Around 3 or 4 a.m., another mighty wail jolts me awake again, and I bolt up to repeat the earlier routine. Thankfully, this time the baby settles after the formula, and I fall asleep first to get ready for work.
As the sunlight begins to peek through the window, a rustling sound wakes me up. I check the time on the phone by my pillow—just past 5:40 a.m. I heave my heavy body up and lean toward the source of the sound. In that moment, the most beautiful smile in the world greets me. And so, a day in the life of a dad developer begins once again.
"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." - Theodore Hesburgh -