Chet Kittleson, 38, is the cofounder of Tin Can and a father of three kids, 10, 8, and 5. I suspect he wouldn’t much like my description of the product’s function as “spying” (keeping watch over one’s kids is part of a parent’s job) or the product itself as a “toy.” He thinks of it, instead, as a utility: a way for kids to talk to Grandma or make plans with friends and to be “part of the same world that grown-ups are a part of.” When he was a kid, he says, the landline was “arguably the most successful social network of all time.” Every house had one. Then came cell phones and smartphones. Direct lines to the internet. “And somewhere along the way we decided the landline was obsolete,” Kittleson says. “In doing that, we overlooked a group that was a major beneficiary of it: kids.”
I’m talking to him over Zoom one afternoon from my home in Los Angeles and his office in Seattle. When I tell him that Amos and Clara had called me more than two dozen times, he doesn’t seem particularly surprised. At first there’s a burst of activity, he says, and then over the course of a few weeks, the kids mature. “They’re like, oh, OK, I see that I can actually do things with this that are important,” he says.
Kittleson, who guesses that most Tin Can users are between the ages of 5 and 13, says he wants to help create a “better childhood” or, as he puts it, “giving kids back a sense of independence and confidence.” (Mike Duboe, a partner at Greylock Ventures, which led a round that invested $12 million in the company in October, says something similar.) One parent, describing their kid’s Tin Can use on X, wrote that it “felt like the old days.”
Amos and Clara weren’t the only ones who, over the holidays, got the gift of gab. In late December, frustrated parents flooded the company’s feedback forms and posted on Reddit that their Tin Cans weren’t working. Though the Tin Can engineers had anticipated a surge in usage around the holidays, the hundredfold increase in call volume took them by surprise.
When I ask Kittleson about the holiday meltdown, he winces. “It was a stressful Christmas,” he concedes. (A message on the Tin Can homepage said, “We’re investigating an issue impacting the network.”) He says that future shipments of the product will be staggered.
And the product’s far from perfect: There can be echoes, unstable sound quality, and long pauses. The buttons on the device are hard to press, which can be challenging to little fingers like Amos’. His mother, Rebecca, sometimes has to help him make calls. “It takes a little bit out of the independence of it,” she says.
My first phone, like that of other kids in my generation, was my family’s, a mustard yellow piece of hard plastic that sat on the mottled brown linoleum counter adjacent to the kitchen. It held a special place in my imagination—an object full of potential—but like most phones back then it was shared within a family and maybe even overheard or monitored. It was also tethered to a wall, making it difficult to multitask or move around while on a call. Kittleson, in fact, says that one inspiration for Tin Can was his frustration when he called his mother on her cell phone. She was, he says, “the worst”: the sort of person who ran around the house while on the call, doing laundry or whatnot. Difficult to hear. Easily distracted.
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