There’s a certain rhythm to my mornings, the only time I can claim any semblance of order with three little ones under five. I meticulously set the stage in the quiet dark before the chaos of the day unfolds. By evening, I’m completely unraveled, but those precious morning moments belong to me, and I tackle them with military precision. Brew coffee. Pack the kids’ lunches. Let the dog out, giving her a stern look if she dares to bark. Finally, I settle in like a stealthy ninja at the kitchen table, armed with coffee, breakfast, and a quick peek at the news.
Don’t be fooled, though. By “news,” I mean a hasty scroll through Twitter, a glance at my Facebook feed, and a few superficial looks at The New Yorker, mostly for appearances. But the real highlight of my morning is the app I dare not touch until I’m fortified with food, drink, and a moment of silence: TimeHop.
In theory, TimeHop is like the highlight reel of our lives, the kind of slideshow you’d expect at a rehearsal dinner — designed to evoke smiles, laughter, and perhaps a cringe or two at that unfortunate perm you once thought was a good idea. In reality, however, TimeHop is an emotional rollercoaster, especially for a parent like me with a child who has special needs.
Not too long ago, TimeHop felt like a delightful stroll down memory lane. But now, five years have passed, filled with long months in the NICU, countless therapy sessions, fittings for leg braces, and a series of increasingly larger wheelchairs, like nesting dolls. Interspersed with these challenges are milestones: first steps, first bites, first words, and first friends at school.
Using TimeHop is like playing a slot machine in Vegas. Will I relive that beautiful wagon ride from last spring when all three kids held hands for just a heartbeat before I snapped a picture? Or will I be thrust back into a NICU room from four years ago, staring at the whirring incubator that served as my son’s first home for the first two months of his life?
Will it be the moment he stood proudly with his physical therapist, his face beaming with trust and determination? Or will it be the trains that kept him entertained in the pediatrician’s office while we waited for a pneumonia diagnosis? Honestly, the risk feels almost not worth it.
Almost. Because every once in a while, TimeHop presents moments that my muddled mind could never conjure. My son has never followed a conventional timeline. He knew the alphabet before he could speak. He could recognize numbers, colors, and any musical note before he could walk. He’s a bit of a time traveler — as are all kids with special needs.
We’ve learned not to measure them against standard developmental charts. How dull! They’re quantum leapers, navigating unpredictable sequences of growth, akin to wormholes in the universe that grant access to realms we can’t always navigate with our logic and the steady march through typical life stages.
This is why TimeHop is part of my morning routine. It offers a stark, objective reminder of our journey. If I ever find myself peeking over the fence at the conventional developmental line, TimeHop places its bets on fate, chance, and a belief that there’s a pattern to the chaos.
It reassures me that while our path may not be straightforward, it is leading somewhere significant — a jackpot of sorts. If I allow it, TimeHop sparks messages of hope from both the recent and distant past. But first, I need my coffee.