I am obviously referring to when my nine year old hit a home run for the first time in his career. And it was not just a solo-shot– it was a grand slam– a grand salami. As he was feverishly sprinting around the bases I experienced a sense of euphoria and joy that only rivals the feeling I had on my wedding day when my queen of a wife circled me seven times under the Chuppah. Or, perhaps more accurately, when my 12-year old won the league championship, and when I myself hit a home run with my grandfather in attendance. This became an instant sporting career highlight, and I was delighted for my son.

The other day, I celebrated a tremendous parental milestone. No, I did not train my 2 year old how to go poopy in the potty, and my four year…