Your children bring back treasures
From the seashore, things espied.
It behooves you to check closely
That no corpses cling inside.

Though there may not be a’swimming
A lowlier creature than the whelk,
In a week or so, in Junior’s room,
There’ll be no more powerful smelk.

Note: As a child, I spent a half-supervised hour during my brother’s boring seaside cross-country meet digging in the sand, excavating the jawbone of what was likely a deceased canine. I was not allowed to keep my specimen. I was “allowed” to ride the several hours home with my freezing fingers outside the car window, then “assisted” with multiple scrubbings to get the smell off them. Ah, the smell of de-ceas…ed canine. (Too far for that one, I know. *shrug*)

I went to take a picture
Of my snowflake being cute.
My phone said, “Not today, lady.”
My memory was kaput.

It wasn’t corrupt or hijacked,
It seemed to be working fine,
But there’s already 10,000 snaps
And half of them aren’t mine.

I admit I like a cloud shot
And I take the occasional selfie.
My kids, though, geez almighty,
Blurry shots from bats to belfry.

If I ever need their fingerprints,
I won’t have to bring an item.
I have 500 close-ups of fingers,
It’s the Phone Age way to provide ’em.

Then there’s shots from all the apps,
Cartoons in different wigs.
Surely don’t miss an iteration
Of how you dressed up a pig.

When they venture into actual shots,
It’s sometimes cruelly unkind.
“Here’s Mommy scowling her bestest frown
And a panorama of her behind!”

Delete, delete, delete, delete.
Make room for actual pictures.
Though this one is rather artistic…
What a way to see bathroom fixtures!

Note: By far my favorite is when they take 100 selfies with different facial expressions. I really do save some of those, it’s comedy.