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.

I told him again and again to stop pushing buttons on the remote control, but he persisted with abandon. The fourth or fifth time, I swatted his hand away with about as much effort as to brush away a nagging mosquito, but I must’ve hit the bruise he earned falling on the stairs a few days earlier. He stared at me coldly. Then he decided he was no longer interested in watching me play the bass per his request and walked away. “You don’t want any more music, buddy,” I asked?

He paused at the stairs, looked back at me, and then called up, “Mommy?” He looked back at me one more time to make clear I had brought this on myself.

“Mommy, Daddy hurt my arm.”

Two years, two weeks, and two days, that’s all it took the little manipulator. I didn’t narc on my mom to my granny till I was at least 4.