Father's Day is the most terrifying day of the year at the Robinson house. My survival is a tribute to my rugged physique and genetic good health and I will depend on those blessings this coming Sunday.

My own father had it easy. He had 10 kids but he smoked a pipe and each year he could look forward to getting 10 tins of Granger Rough cut tobacco.

Other than a book or two, my own six male progeny usually wanted to engage in some physical test of virility. Like Hop on Pop. It used to be easy.

It always started with the boys lining up and one at a time climbing on my back to play bucking bronco. For many years, I could generally prevail by resorting to the old quicksand trick of collapsing my right front hoof. Later they figured out their legs were long enough to entwine my corpulence and I gave up and lay gasping on the carpet.

That brought on the Hop on Pop game. I endured this every year till they were all heavier than me, and their Mother made them stop long enough to repair the furniture.

One year they all wanted to play touch football in the front yard. Naturally I was quarterback. After all, I controlled the will.

I did okay till I faded back too far and smacked the maple tree and nearly ripped my ear off. They all thought that was hilarious. Even the guys on my side.

The Father's Day they all wanted to go fishing at Lake Fenwick in Kent was a real corker. I took our 8-foot dinghy and after parking all of them on a big log with their fishing rods and a can of worms, I set out by myself. That bit of quietude did not last long.

As I paddled slowly past the boys lined up on the log, I made the mistake of leaning over too far to wash the worm juice off my hands and slowly capsized.

Luckily I popped to the surface like a champagne cork. I had on my flotation jacket and managed to swim to shore as my hooting young audience cheered me on. No real harm done except that the water was icy, I was icy and the paper bag with all the peanut sandwiches was totaled.

They were not too happy when I insisted on taking them home fishless.

On the off chance they will all read this: Boys, instead of flattening my body on the living room rug, I would much rather have the Daphne Odora bush pruned, the car washed, the broken drapery cord fixed, the gutters cleaned, the lawn fertilized, the fountain pump cleaned and you guys bring the pizza.

My two daughters will doubtless show up with a huge salad and some chocolate chip cookies or an apple pie.

If my luck holds out Elsbeth will remember a special card and the ice cream.

How lucky can a guy get?