I am, in a way, a stranger in my own house.

I've worked nights for more than five years. For as long as my three daughters can remember, daddy's only been around to help put them to bed a couple of nights a week.

And on a lot of those infrequent evenings, mom was less than thrilled with the break provided from their usual routine.

The wrestling and tickling sessions on the living room floor, she says, get the girls far too wound up before bedtime.

Now that I'm on a schedule that has me home every night, the wrestling sessions are threatening to become the new usual routine.

In my defense, I'm only carrying on a family tradition. My father wrestled with his kids before bedtime, and from that experience I know the fun will last only as long as my aging body will allow.

There were a lot of nights my dad and I went three rounds on the carpet. As I grew taller, the rounds grew shorter. But he always got the better of me, right up until the very last time we ever wrestled.

The way he would usually prevail was with a simple, but highly effective, pinky hold. He'd gain a grip on one little finger or the other, bend it forward against itself and squeeze like the dickens until I gave up the fight.

One night, as The Human Vise clamped down on my pinky, I decided he would need more than that to finish the job.

I wrapped my legs around his middle and hooked my ankles together — the dreaded scissors hold. The harder he pressed on my pinky, the tighter I squeezed with my legs.

The crack was audible, and nearly simultaneous with his complete release of my pinky. Two of his ribs had surrendered the battle he wouldn't.

Dad's recovery was long and included very painful coughs and sneezes. After his broken body had mended, I tried to coax him back to the carpet, but he never would go.

"No, son," he'd say. "You beat me. You won."

My girls are a little young for the brand of wrestling I engaged in with my father. Our living room free-for-alls usually start with the girls taking turns walking on my back.

Nothing helps a sore back more than little bare feet with 40-50 pounds on top of them.

Inevitably, one of the girls will throw down with an atomic knee drop, and the melee ensues.

I go easier on my daughters, even at their tender age, than I probably would if they were sons. They don't play by any rules, however, and they also don't hesitate to exploit my kindness in that area.

I'm already a good bit older than my dad was when he retired from the ring. It's hard to tell how much longer I'll be able to take on my girls without suffering serious injury.

But I plan on winding them up at bedtime for as long as possible.

And when the usual routine starts getting too rough for me, I can always pull out the old pinky hold. That should buy me a couple of more years in the ring.

Mark Rutledge can be contacted at mrutledge@coxnc.com