My daughter’s birthday is coming up, so I bought her a present. It is a tiny digital camera called the Kodak Charmera. It hangs on a keychain, and it is small enough to hide in your hand.
The funny thing is the number printed on the box: 1987. The camera is brand new, but it is designed to look like something from that year. I checked, and 1987 is older than me. So I bought my daughter a camera that pretends to be older than her father. I am not sure how I feel about that, but I laughed.
The box also says “7 styles in total” and “blind box,” which means you do not know which color you will get until you open it. I like that part. It is a small piece of suspense, the kind that costs almost nothing but still makes your heart beat a little faster. I almost want to keep it closed for one more day, just to enjoy the not-knowing.
I grew up with real film cameras. You pressed the button, you waited, and days later the photos came back from the shop — some good, most blurry, and always a few of the ceiling. This little Charmera is digital, so my daughter will never wait like that. She will press the button and see the picture right away.
I don’t think that is better or worse. It is just different. But I hope this small toy teaches her the same thing the old cameras taught me: that it is worth stopping to look, and that even a blurry, silly photo is a piece of a day you will not get back.
Anyway, the box is still closed on my desk. Seven styles, one blind box, one very curious father. I think I am more excited than she is.
