Mornings in my home, with three little ones under five, have a certain rhythm—one I can only claim during those brief moments of quiet before the chaos erupts. I thread together the day’s tasks in the early hours, only to watch them unravel once the kids wake up. By evening, I’m often a jumble of nerves, but the morning is my domain, and I tackle it with the precision of a military operation: brew coffee, pack lunches, let the dog out (while sternly warning her to stay silent), and finally, I settle at the kitchen table like a stealthy ninja, ready to sip my coffee and grab a bite.
But don’t be deceived. The “news” I consume is more of a quick skim—headlines from Twitter, brief scrolls through Facebook, and a few glances at The New Yorker for appearances. The real news, however, is personal; it’s the app I avoid until I’ve fortified myself with sustenance and a moment of peace: TimeHop.
In theory, TimeHop is like a cinematic montage of our lives, reminiscent of those sentimental slideshow presentations at rehearsal dinners designed to evoke feelings of nostalgia. In practice, for me, it’s an emotional rollercoaster, particularly as a parent of a child with special needs.
TimeHop used to be a cheerful stroll down memory lane. But five years have passed—years filled with countless days in the NICU, endless therapies, fittings for leg braces, and a series of wheelchairs that seem to replicate like matryoshka dolls. Yet amidst these challenges, we celebrate milestones: first steps, first bites, first words, and the first friendships at school.
It’s like playing a slot machine in Vegas; will my last sips of coffee reveal a blissful memory of the three kids holding hands for a fleeting moment last spring? Or will I be confronted with the stark reality of a NICU room from four years ago, where our son spent the first two months of his life? Will it showcase his first moment standing tall with his physical therapist, or a day spent waiting for a pneumonia diagnosis? Sometimes, the gamble feels almost futile.
Almost. Because occasionally, the memories TimeHop reveals clarify feelings I struggle to articulate. My son has never adhered to a conventional timeline. He recognized the alphabet before he could speak, understood numbers and colors before taking his first steps. He embodies a unique kind of time travel, as do many children with special needs.
We’ve learned not to confine them to a standard developmental chart; they are quantum leapers, navigating unpredictable sequences. They’re like wormholes in the universe, granting access to realms beyond our logical reach and the traditional phases of life.
That’s why TimeHop is an essential part of my morning routine. It serves as a digital reminder of our journey, illustrating what we’ve experienced together. Whenever I feel tempted to wistfully glance at conventional developmental timelines, it reassures me that fate and chance intertwine, suggesting that there is a pattern amidst the randomness.
It reinforces the notion that our path, while not linear, is meaningful—big enough to warrant a celebration. If I allow it, TimeHop reminds me that both recent and distant memories convey messages of hope. But first, I need my coffee.
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Summary:
In the article, Emily Carter shares her mixed feelings about Facebook’s TimeHop feature, reflecting on the emotional journey of parenting a child with special needs. She discusses the contrast between joyful memories and poignant reminders of past challenges, ultimately finding comfort in the unique timeline of her child’s development.