The Mom Tapes

The tape changed. The reason never did.

A letter. A tape. Whatever comes next.

Three generations

Your grandma wrote it down. Your mom pressed record. Your turn.

A handwritten letter on cream paper, a fountain pen beside it — **Your grandma.**A letter in a drawer. Read a hundred times. Never thrown out.

A VHS tape with a handwritten label that reads Christmas 1994 — **Your mom.**A tape with her handwriting on it. Played every Christmas until the VCR died, then kept anyway.

A phone standing on a table — **You.**A few minutes on your phone. What you'll leave behind, kept playable for whoever comes next.

What this is

Your mom had a camcorder and a shoebox. You have a phone and a camera roll. Your grandkids will watch their parents on something that doesn't exist yet. The medium changes. The need doesn't.

A mother records a moment from her life as it's happening and what it means to her. A lesson she paid for. The thing she'd say at a moment she might not be there for. Every video is kept playable on whatever comes next.

Record your first video Press play on one

One moment at a time. Your face, your voice, kept.

A keepsake box open on a bed: a newborn's knitted sock, a folded drawing, an envelope, and a VHS tape with a blank label

Why this exists

Everything else gets left behind by accident.

Every generation found a way. The letter, the camcorder, the hard drive nobody can open anymore. There are thousands of videos on your phone and no one but you knows which ones matter. There's the thing you'd say to your kid at eighteen, and you'll say it at eighteen, unless you can't.

Your phone has a setting for what happens to your photos. Your password manager has a page about it. Neither of them knows your son's wedding day or your daughter's first night in a new city. Nothing you own can wait for a moment.

The Mom Tapes can.

A keepsake box with no voice in it is just a box.

Three kinds of videos

Now. Then. If.

Most of what a mother knows never gets said out loud. Three kinds of video, so it does.

Now

Who your kid is right now, and who you are together. The day they arrived. The words they say wrong. The thing only you two do. Everything they'll be too young to remember, told by the one who was there.

Then

Your own story, the way a biographer would ask for it. The house you grew up in. The year you almost quit. The thing your own mother never explained. Told at the age you earned it.

If

The moments you might not be there for, answered from the life you actually lived. The first heartbreak. Choosing who to marry. The leap into something of your own. Sealed for that moment and opened when it comes. Not a day before.

A guide, not a script

You never sit there wondering what to say.

One chapter a month, by text. Three questions on one theme, rotating through Now, Then and If, and chosen for your life: the work you've done, the family you came from, what you've been through. Answer one or all three. Take as long as it takes.

Two VHS tapes standing on a wooden shelf in late light, labeled by hand: first heartbreak, and your wedding morning — Labeled by hand. Opened when it's time.

Scroll them.

A few of them. Some you'll answer tonight. Some you'll be glad you answered early.

Press play

This is what one looks like.

A Now tape. Yours will be your face and your voice, with your kid's name in it.

A wood-grain television on a low cabinet in a dark living room, a VCR beneath it with a tape half inserted

0:00

Tape 05 · A regular Tuesday

How it works

Three parts. The third is the hard one.

A phone leaning against a mug on a kitchen table at night, a VHS tape beside it

You record.

One chapter a month, by text, with a link that opens the camera. After your first video, a few questions about your life, so every chapter fits it. Lean the phone on a mug and talk as long as you need. The videos already on your phone come in too.

A cream envelope sealed with red wax stamped K, an old brass key resting on it

You choose a Keeper.

A person you'd trust with the spare key. A sibling, a friend, a grandparent. Not an algorithm, and not necessarily next of kin. The Keeper holds a sealed copy and the rules, on paper, in a drawer.

It releases when it's time.

Now and Then tapes go on the shelf the day you record them, for the people you choose. If tapes carry their moment: a date, an age, an event, or your absence. Absence is confirmed by your Keeper, a human who picks up the phone. Never guessed by a machine. Never a day early.

Promises

What we promise, in writing, from day one.

An open kraft box holding two VHS tapes and a drive with a card that reads Year one, 47 tapes — Year one, in the mail.

Your videos are yours.Download every one of them, any day, as plain video files that play anywhere.
Playable on whatever comes next.Formats die. Your dad's tapes are proof. We re-copy every video forward before the old format goes.
Nothing releases without a human.Silence is a reason to check on you. It is never, by itself, a trigger.
A physical copy, once a year.In the mail, with a printed index. Some things should exist off the internet.
If we disappear, your plan doesn't.Your Keeper holds what they need on paper. The videos don't depend on us being alive either.
Not content. Letters.We never sell your videos, scan them for ads, or train anything on them.
Chosen, not default.The law hands your life to next of kin. Here, you decide who holds the key.

Why I'm building this

I'm a dad. I built The Dad Tapes first because it was the one I needed: a place to leave my son the things I'd say at the moments I might not be there for.

But the moments don't belong to dads. A mother's voice on the morning of a wedding is its own thing, and it deserves its own shelf. So this is the same idea, with the same promises, the same Keeper, and the same box in the mail every year.

If you're a mom with a list of your own, this one is yours.

LeninFounder, The Mom Tapes and The Dad Tapes

Questions

The ones people ask first.

Is this only for moms?

No. The name says who it was made for. Dads have their own shelf at The Dad Tapes. Grandparents, godparents, the aunt who shows up: record. The videos don't check your title.

I'm healthy. Isn't this a little morbid?

You're healthy, which is exactly when to record. The videos aren't about dying. They're about being there for a moment you can't predict, in the voice you have today. Many of them will be opened while you're alive, by a kid who wanted to hear what you sounded like back then.

How long should a video be?

As long as it takes. Most people say what they came to say in a few minutes. The page lets you know when you've been going a while, but it never cuts you off. The only limit is the phone's: twenty minutes per video recorded here, and up to 2 GB for a video you already have.

Who can see my videos?

No one, until the moment you set. Not the Keeper, not us. In the full version, videos will be encrypted on your phone before they leave it. Until then, the only thing we hold is the email you give us below.

What will it cost?

We'll tell you before we charge you a dollar. The first hundred help set the price.

Where we are

We're early, and that's the point.

The first videos are recorded. The first version is being built for one family. We'll open it to the first hundred people who want to leave something behind on purpose.

You're in. We'll write when there's something to open.

Until then, record one tonight. Say the date, say their name, and say the thing.