Mornings in a household with three little ones under five can feel like an orchestrated symphony, albeit one that quickly descends into chaos once the kids wake. Before their day begins, I weave a routine in the quiet hours, only to watch it fray as soon as they stir. By bedtime, I find myself in a similar disarray. But those early hours are mine, and I approach them with military precision: brew coffee, pack lunches, let the dog out (with a stern warning if she dares to bark), and finally, I stealthily settle at the kitchen table with my breakfast, coffee, and the news.
Let’s be honest, though—when I say “news,” I mean a quick scroll through social media, a few highlights on Twitter, and a glance at articles in The New Yorker, mostly for appearances. The real news I hold off on until I’ve had my fill of food and a moment of calm: TimeHop.
In theory, TimeHop should be the highlight reel of our lives, like a joyful montage from a wedding rehearsal dinner that prompts smiles and laughter—perhaps even a cringe at that hairstyle from years past. However, for me as a parent of a child with special needs, it often feels like an emotional rollercoaster, swirling just off the coast of my life, waiting to crash ashore.
Once, TimeHop was a delightful stroll down memory lane. But five years have gone by—years filled with months in the NICU, countless therapies, fittings for leg braces, and a series of increasingly larger wheelchairs, much like nesting dolls. Amidst all this, we’ve also celebrated first steps, first words, and first friends at school.
Scrolling through TimeHop is akin to playing the slots in Vegas. Will I be greeted with that heartwarming photo of my three kids holding hands during a wagon ride last spring? Or will I be confronted with memories of a NICU room from four years ago, the incubator that served as our son’s temporary home?
Will it be the image of him standing with his physical therapist, radiating trust and determination? Or perhaps the trains that kept him entertained while we anxiously awaited a pneumonia diagnosis at the pediatrician? The stakes feel high, and yet, I keep playing.
Because sometimes, TimeHop offers clarity that my busy mind struggles to grasp. My son has never adhered to a typical developmental timeline. He recognized the alphabet before he could speak, and he could identify numbers and colors long before he took his first steps. Kids with special needs are like time travelers, navigating a unique path that defies convention.
We’ve learned not to confine them to standard developmental charts; they are quantum leapers, moving through life’s phases in unpredictable sequences. They represent the wormholes of existence, allowing access to realms we sometimes can’t comprehend through our logical progression.
That’s why TimeHop is an integral part of my morning routine. It serves as a stark reminder of the past, grounding me in the reality of our journey. If I ever find myself gazing longingly at conventional developmental milestones, TimeHop reassures me that fate and chance are at play, revealing a greater pattern amidst the chaos.
It provides tangible proof that while our path may not be linear, it is undoubtedly leading us toward something significant—something worth the investment of our time and energy. If I allow it, TimeHop sends messages of hope from both the recent and distant past. But first, I need my coffee.
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In summary, while TimeHop can evoke a mix of emotions—both joyous and bittersweet—it ultimately reminds us that each moment, whether cherished or challenging, contributes to our unique narrative.