I was in the kitchen making dinner while my three children took turns flying onto my husband, who was sprawled on the living room floor, still wearing his suit and tie. The kids tackled him, tickled him and then thrashed to get away when, in fact, they were the ones who hurled themselves straight for Dad's ribcage in the first place.

Dinner entertainment consisted of a corn-eating contest and knock-knock jokes that made no sense but caused milk to spout from noses. Dinner ended with Dad conducting a spoon-balancing-on-the-nose contest. I didn't laugh. I just cringed at the mess.

After dinner, I cleaned up and my husband crouched behind a chair while the kids searched for him. Squeals erupted as Daddy jumped out and yelled, "Arrughhaww!" Everybody lunged in for more tickling and tackling.

Once the kids were in their pajamas, I felt a sense of calm until I noticed Baby Luke soaring through the air aboard a makeshift jet airplane (i.e., my husband's big, smelly feet), while the other children raced around the room yelling, "My turn! My turn!" Luke's doughy arms dangled midair as he kept a steady balance on his make-believe jet. Everybody but me laughed hysterically. I was too busy folding laundry.

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