Video Call

But then I come across one video I definitely didn’t film. It seems to highlight all my bad-mothering moments. I watch myself standing at the sink stacking washed plates. My then- 16-year-old Tzippy saunters over to the counter and sticks her fingers into the cucumber salad, sampling, licking. I see myself glance at her, then back at the plates. I clench my teeth at the computer. What kind of mother am I to let her do that?

The video zooms onto the kitchen table heavy with splatters of congealed cholent, red goo, strewn plastic forks and cups. Three vagabonds in white shirts laze at the table with a magazine, giggling. What about cleaning up, helping? Anyone? I think from my perch behind my desk.

I watch as Avi comes on the screen, making funny faces into the lens. It was he, I’m sure, who dared set my camera to roll on the counter, showcasing my failures. I squirm in my seat as I watch myself move in space as if nothing matters.

After too long a time, I see myself calling on Avi, who’s hopping from tile to tile, to put away the case of grape juice blocking the doorway. Okay, maybe I am doing something right. But then I watch as the kid rips open the box, plunks a plastic bottle on his head and toddles off to the pantry — and on the screen I grimace, open my mouth, and say, “Av, take the bottle off your head. It can fall. And hurry up.”