I schlepped us to the American Museum of Natural History, and walked for what seemed like miles across the park to the zoo. Nothing could hamper my determination, not even my kids' mounting distress. Samantha would start to complain about wanting to go home. Mia would spit up. But I was armed and ready with lollipops and baby wipes. "Come on," I pleaded desperately as Samantha splayed herself defiantly on the grass, "this is our special day!" As I struggled to peel her from the earth, I could feel that day passing me by.

After a move to the suburbs, Daddy Day began to seem more manageable, and in my mind, the potential for mind-blowing good times increased in turn. I had a station wagon now and, instead of the tiny basket of space under the stroller, a vast interior to stock with toys, dolls, books, video games. We drove to the local breakfast joint for mounds of chocolate-chip pancakes and whipped cream. We read dozens of books at the library. If Mia got tired, I wouldn't drive home--a sure sign of defeat--I'd just park and wait it out.

With my newfound mobility, I overcompensated wildly. I plotted every potential diversion within a 45-minute radius: Amusement park? Check. Science museum? Check. Living-history farm? Absolutely. We could ride rides, pet pets, farm farms. But my ambition, inevitably, soon got the better of me. After a few dozen Saturdays, I was running out of ideas and my sense of worthiness as Fun Dad.

I asked Samantha what, if anything, she would do for her Ultimate Daddy Day. She chewed her lower lip, batted her eyelashes, and said, with a nod, "Chuck E. Cheese." I gulped. As I knew ahead of time, going to Chuck E. Cheese required intense preparation. I needed patience. Caffeine. A Hazmat suit. To make matters worse, Mia had been up late and was in dire need of a nap. But in the name of quality time, I grabbed my bucket of tokens and ventured forth.

I quickly paid the price. When a sauce-stained bully refused to relinquish the Barney ride, Mia melted down. The fire spread to Sami, who, because of Mia's tantrum, couldn't get me to play air hockey. The life-size animatronic Chuck E. rat cackled defiantly. Lights flashed. Sirens blared. Skee-balls flew. We left.

The next weekend, as the sun came up, I gathered the girls. "Where are we going?" Sami said, somewhat warily. "Somewhere very special," I said. "The kitchen!" As the girls helped me make M- and S- shaped pancakes, I could see that my decision was just fine with them. For years I'd been working to entertain my kids when the answer, all along, was waiting for me back at my house. Just because I work doesn't mean I have to become the Great American Dad every Saturday. I'm not the only one coming off a long week--with school done, sometimes the girls just want to stay home.

The key to fun together, I found, isn't in trying to be the perfect dad for my girls--it's in just being their dad.

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