Mornings in a household with three kids under five have a unique rhythm—one that I meticulously craft before the sun rises, knowing full well that chaos will soon follow once the little ones wake. I set my day like a well-oiled machine: brew coffee, pack lunches, let the dog outside (with a stern warning to keep quiet), and finally, I stealthily settle at the kitchen table with my essentials: coffee, breakfast, and a quick check of the news.
Now, let’s be clear: by “news,” I mean the snippets I catch on Twitter, a fleeting scroll through Facebook, and a cursory look at The New Yorker—mostly for appearances. However, the true highlight of my morning comes from an app I dare not open without a solid breakfast and a moment of quiet contemplation: TimeHop.
In theory, TimeHop is like a cinematic montage of our lives—a nostalgic slideshow designed to evoke smiles, laughter, and perhaps a cringe at that haircut you once thought was stylish. But for me, as a parent to a child with special needs, TimeHop often feels like an emotional rollercoaster.
Not long ago, using TimeHop was a joyful stroll down memory lane. However, five years have flown by, filled with months spent in the NICU, countless therapy sessions, fittings for leg braces, and a series of wheelchairs that seem to get larger with each new addition. Despite the challenges, we’ve also celebrated milestones: first steps, first words, and first friends.
Using TimeHop is like playing a game of slot machines in Vegas. Will I relive that magical moment from last spring when all three kids held hands for a brief second? Or will I be transported back to the NICU room from years ago, with the sound of the incubator echoing in my mind? Will I see my son standing proudly with his physical therapist, or will it be a memory of the pediatrician’s office while we awaited a pneumonia diagnosis? The uncertainty makes it almost not worth the risk.
Almost. Because sometimes, TimeHop reveals insights clearer than anything my foggy mind can conjure. My son has never followed the typical timeline. He learned the alphabet before he could speak and grasped numbers and colors before he took his first steps. He’s a kind of time traveler—just like many kids with special needs.
We’ve learned not to confine these kids to developmental charts; that’s too ordinary. They’re quantum-leapers, with unpredictable timelines that don’t always conform to our expectations. They possess the ability to traverse paths we can only dream of navigating through our conventional understanding of life’s phases.
This is why TimeHop becomes a part of my morning routine. It serves as a stark reminder, through the lens of technology, of where we’ve been. It helps me resist the temptation to long for a standard developmental timeline and instead places my bets on fate, chance, and the belief that there’s a method to the madness.
TimeHop reassures me that the journey may not be linear, but it’s leading somewhere significant—akin to winning a jackpot. If I allow it, this app can remind me that both recent and distant memories carry messages of hope. But first, I need that cup of coffee.
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In summary, my relationship with TimeHop is complex. It brings joy and reflection but also stirs up feelings of uncertainty. Yet, amidst the chaos of parenting, it provides a glimpse into the unique journey we are on, reminding me that every moment counts.
Keyphrase: Facebook TimeHop feature
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