Here’s a photo of Gabby’s morning tea party. Dollies were invited. Ponies were invited. Even cars were invited, at little brother Daniel’s insistence.

I’m not sure the dog was invited. But he showed up anyway.

Heck, they were serving crackers and cheese there. And it was all free.

There are only seven entries because the eighth child was acting as judge. She has her work cut out for her.

Well, we’ve sure been getting dirty lately!

I think Daniel’s recent obsession with “worm hunting” might have something to do with it.

“Worm hunting” consists of convincing an older brother or sister to dig alongside you in the woods or in Mama’s empty herb garden (Shame on me, I know!) until one uncovers a worm or two. Or seven. Or sixteen.

Then the 2 year old grips the worms in his soil-blackened hands and brings them in (yes, you read that right — inside my house) to “show Mama.”

This is the most important part of worm hunting.

Mama does not freak out. Once, when she tried to say the worms were just a little bit gross, Daniel grew indignant.

“Dey not gwoss!” he had insisted, stamping the floor with a mud-caked foot for emphasis. “Dey worms!”

So no. Mama pretends the worms are the loveliest and coolest and awesomest creatures she has ever had the honor of hosting in her home and then hisses at a nearby big kid to hurry up and help Danny feed those worms to the turtle already.

You see, we must feed them to the turtle (of course we have a turtle in the house — you are missing out if you don’t have one) because if we don’t feed them to the turtle, the worms will just be there and the 2-year-old will not be able to think of anything else, indoors or out, and the worms will be handled and brought back outside and then back inside and stressed over by folks of all ages … No, they must go away. And why not treat the turtle to some live food for a change anyway?

After the worms have been eaten and thus served their earthly purpose, the 2-year-old can return to his earthly purpose — which is of course, digging up more worms.

I do wonder some days, though … How many worms can 10 acres hold? And how many worms can one turtle ingest? And how much money could I make if I opened up a little bait shop?

Tonight, when I examined the hands of Raphael, one of Daniel’s favorite worm hunting partners, I said, “Wow, you sure got grubby.”

But Raphael shook his head.

“No Mama,” he told me. “I’m not grubby. We only saw one or two grubs and we didn’t touch them. We were out there for the worms.”

Very well then. Not grubby. Wormy. That’s us.

That they come down the slide together with these grins?

Or that Big Brother turns around instinctively to help Little Brother off the slide?

This is the game:

1. Stand on a chair in the dining room.

2. Dump enormous box of crayons onto the floor.

3. Giggle with glee.

4. Get down from chair and painstakingly refill box with every last crayon from the floor.

5. Repeat.

A certain boy in the house has made it his personal project to memorize every last line of a certain U2 song in recent weeks. This boy and his little brother (who learned the lyrics himself through near constant exposure) have been belting out this song all … day … long.

I am not kidding. One would think they would require oxygen or throat lozenges at this point, but their stamina seems to know no bounds. They sing to each other, they serenade their baby brother, they screech into the turkey baster … er, microphone and I almost believe I have been graced with the presence of Bono himself.

Almost.

This afternoon, the constant noise began to wear on me (did I mention it’s been non-stop?) and I attempted to outlaw the concert series.

“Take a break!” I begged them. “Or at least rehearse outside.”

They did try. We basked in blessed silence for almost 47 seconds. But an artist is an artist and he simply cannot keep his “personal expression” all bottled up inside.

They hummed. They tapped. They bounced in their seats. And when at last they could contain it no longer … they sang. Quietly at first, but then louder and louder.

I know what they say about consistent parenting. In fact, I think I am one of the “they” because I know I have written about consistency and follow-through being key to good parenting. But another key to good parenting, I have found, is picking your battles.

This time, I asked myself, “Is this the hill you want to die on?” and I answered myself, “No.”

I opted for ignoring. Surely, I thought, if I just quietly endure the noise and let them sing, surely they will eventually grow tired of it themselves and move on to the next activity.

Surely.

So far, so wrong.

This morning:

“Mama, do you want to play a card game?”

“Not right now, sweetie.”

After lunch:

“Would you like to play cards with me now?”

“Maybe when I’m done with these dishes and after I make a phone call.”

Late afternoon:

“Can you play cards now, Mama?”

“Okay.”

The laundry sat and dinner waited while she dealt out the Dora Explorer playing cards. She flipped and matched cards quickly as she explained a complicated list of rules to me. I think she was making it all up as she went along. At least she was patient with my ineptitude.

I don’t suppose, I thought to myself as I matched a pair of fours, that I’ll be getting all the laundry done today.

And I don’t suppose that matters at all.