Parenting

Four parts in, the pictures existed, the tool worked, and the questions I’d been carrying about copyright were settled. This last part is about what actually happened once my daughter got her hands on it. Once the song tab had pictures, did she actually use it the way you hoped? More than I hoped, honestly. Tapping through pictures to find “her” song became a favorite activity on its own — separate from actually listening to anything. She’d flip through several before settling on one, the same way she flips through book covers on the other tabs. ...

I want to explain how the song tab in my Kids Player came together — not just the build, but the reasons behind it. Some of those reasons are more about parenting than about code, and I found it easier to lay them out as straight questions and answers instead of one long story. This is part one of five. Your daughter can’t read yet. How does she use an app that’s mostly lists and menus? ...

A perfectly sorted archive is worthless if the people it’s for can’t watch it. My two viewers are an eighty-seven-year-old and a two-year-old. Between them, they can’t manage menus, can’t type, and won’t tap through a playlist. So the watching part had to be as close to zero-effort as I could make it. The rule I designed to was simple: pick a month, then sit back. Everything after that first tap should happen on its own. ...

My daughter was born in 2024. By the time she turned two, my wife and I had taken about 10,000 photos and videos of her. Every one of them was safely backed up to my home NAS. And every one of them was, in practice, lost. Not lost like deleted. Lost like a box in the attic you keep meaning to open. The files were there — I just could never find the ones I wanted, because they were mixed in with screenshots, receipts, memes, and every other photo two adults take in two years. “Backed up” had quietly become “buried.” ...

Give a two-year-old a tablet and you know what usually happens. A cartoon starts, then autoplay picks the next one, louder and faster, and twenty minutes later she’s somewhere you never chose. My daughter has a different first choice now. She opens her own player, taps My Records, and watches herself — as a baby, at her first birthday, on an ordinary Tuesday last month. She’ll do this for an hour. She skips the cartoons to get to it. ...

My mother is eighty-seven. She lives in the countryside, by the Boseong River. She has never made an account for anything, never typed a password she chose herself, and she would not know what “the cloud” means. But tonight she is holding a Galaxy tablet, and on it she is watching her granddaughter — my daughter — as a newborn. Then at six months. Then last week. She taps a folder marked 2026, then July, and there is a video my wife shot this afternoon. ...

My daughter is three. My phone takes about 6,000 photos and videos a year — maybe more. I don’t have 6,000 interesting shots. Most of it is accidental taps, blurry motion, seventeen near-identical photos of the same bread I was about to eat. But somewhere in that pile are the clips I actually care about: her first steps, her laughing at something she found hilarious at the time, moments my wife and I know we’ll want to see again when she’s older. ...

My phone has backed up about six thousand photos and videos from 2025 alone. On my PC, I run a local browser tool — pick_yeju.py — that lets me scroll through them, pick the ones worth keeping, and copy them into my daughter’s media library on our NAS. The files are sorted oldest-first. Six thousand of them. That’s about ninety pages at sixty per page. The problem: every time I restarted the tool, it opened at page one. I’d have to scroll back through to wherever I’d left off the previous session. Ten, twenty, thirty pages — just to find my place again. ...

My three-year-old daughter has a favorite show. Baby Shark. She could watch it every day, and often does. Last week, I showed her something new. Fifteen short videos of herself as a baby — the first year of her life, played one after another. She sat still for one hour. Smiling, then laughing out loud, then quiet and focused. She didn’t ask for Baby Shark once. My wife was watching from across the room. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. ...

Every parent knows this feeling. You hand your child a tablet to show them one video you picked. One tap later, the app has carried them off somewhere else — loud videos, ads, and “recommended” clips chosen by an algorithm that doesn’t know or care about your child. I didn’t want that for my daughter. I also didn’t want to pay a monthly fee, make another account, or hand my child’s attention to another company. ...