(Editor's note: Sometimes it's hard to tell whether you're tackling parenthood in the 21st century -- or being tackled by it. This is the latest in a series of reflections by UPI writers.)

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ITHACA, N.Y., Nov. 17 (UPI) -- When I make my fortune someday, it's going to be on the backs of some very amusing, very adventurous, very unlikely earthworms.

These earthworms evolved spontaneously one night about 10 years ago, when my oldest two were at that stage when you actually have to re-learn how to fall asleep.

The re-learning to fall asleep stage occurs after falling asleep for 18 months because warm milk will do that to you and, for my kids, after several months of sweating it out under the covers while their father tried to turn his favorite rock songs into lullabies.

That isn't easy when your Dad knows the words to 10 songs and one of them is "Smoke on the Water."

No one appreciates the classics anymore.

Anyway, there I was sitting on the side of the bed, when Snurgle suddenly appeared.

Snurgle was an earthworm with a fleshy cummerbund and a big smile. He was of average size and intelligence -- for an earthworm. He didn't speak and at top speed he could hit about 2 miles per decade and he loved to travel.

He was an instant hit.

The reason he was an instant hit was 99.9 percent intuition. It surprised me as much as anyone.

The twins were a few months past 5 years old. They were headed toward school in a month and, as luck would have it, some well intended day-care ladies -- along with a few stray mothers, grandmothers off their tethers, babysitters and assorted retail cashiers -- had been pumping my children's heads full of very cheerful noise about how wonderful school would be.

Consequently, unbeknownst to anyone, they were scared to death.

Along comes Snurgle and in the first story, unoriginal as I happen to be, I proceeded to send Snurgle to kindergarten.

There were thumps on the porch. Every morning, as the school bus arrived … and every afternoon when the kids ran into the kitchen coming home from school.

There were shouts of happiness and the word "kindergarten" repeated constantly.

Snurgle wanted some of this happiness, so he crawled out from his home under the porch, sneaked into the knapsack of an unsuspecting schoolboy and hitched a ride to kindergarten -- whatever that meant.

Snurgle didn't know what "kindergarten" meant. But, he was clinging to a piece of paper when he was accidentally handed over to the kindergarten teacher.

Of course, she screamed. Then she flung the paper into the air. Snurgle went flying and landed in freshly watered plant and settled into the muddy potting soil.

Now, Snurgle was really happy, because he had found out what the word "kindergarten" means.

Roughly translated, it means either "mud" or "wet potting soil."

Well, when my sons learned kindergarten means mud, the room exploded.

They slapped their beds wildly. They sat up and howled. They slapped the beds some more. They screamed with laughter. Their deep tension about school was suddenly allowed this monstrously unorthodox reappraisal. School is mud! How perfect! How absolutely perfect! Mud! In September we're going to Mud!

Maybe school would be a 5-year-old's version of heaven, after all! Suddenly, it had vague possibilities.

Snurgle hasn't survived attempts to get him into written form, but he survived about 200 versions in oral form over the next three years or more. I'd say "pick a place," and the kids sent Snurgle to the moon, to Hollywood, to Paris, to Yankee Stadium. Fancy restaurants were popular. Snurgle and his gang of cohorts Nug-nug, Lem, Clem and Snurgle Jr. are firmly fixed in our memories.

My favorite Snurgle story is this:

Snurgle communicated through what the worms called "body language," which meant I would raise my pointer finger to have Snurgle dance or laugh or scold as the occasion dictated.

I had done about five or 10 Snurgle stories when my youngest son, two years behind the twins, joined in the fun, coming into the twins' room to hear Snurgle stories.

After listening to two or three of them, he came padding into the kitchen one morning, a bit sleepy and walked right up to me. He didn't look up. Instead, he reached out and grabbed my finger. He brought it up to his face and seriously stared that finger down for a few seconds. After a while, he said, looking straight ahead, "What's your name, again?"