My son is having a total meltdown over grapes that were improperly handed to him on the night Mr. Spock died and I can barely resist the urge to smother his tantrum against my chest. I fail at peaceful parenting.

32 years ago, I ended (one of or maybe simply) the only father-son movie outing(s) I had as a kid in a simpering, blubbering mess because I was an emotional little guy who could not handle the death of Spock. (Khaaaaaaaaaaaan!) Now as I sit frustrated with my 2-year-old I can’t imagine what my dad thought of his 8-year-old. And now it’s really not like I can even ask.

So it’s a sad day all around.