Rendering: Adam Pardee/STAFF.

The day before Father’s Day, I saw a meme of Darth Vader staring down the giant void in “The Empire Strikes Back,” right after he told Luke Skywalker they were related.

Luke responded by choosing to fall about a billion feet until getting sucked into a hole and eventually getting stuck hanging by his legs off the bottom of Cloud City.

The caption: “That could have gone better.”

Yeah… been there.

Not the cutting-the-hand-off-your-kid part. I haven’t been there yet. But I don’t care if Vader was wearing a mask. I saw the awkwardness.

Well… he did cut his kid’s hand off after trying to kill him a bunch of times. Then all of a sudden, he reverses field and gets all “cat’s in the cradle” on the guy, who’s really tired from fighting and already subliminally confused about playing tonsil hockey with his sister.

“Hey, I’m your dad and—right, I know I cut off your hand; sorry about that, by the way—but hey, Tiger, you know what would be fun? What do you say we grab some ice cream, play some catch, overthrow my boss and rule the galaxy as father and son?”

Luke thought about it for a second, remembered he now needed to learn how to throw left-handed, and opted for a hellish suicide plunge rather than go conquering with dad.

I get it. I’m pretty sure my kids would, too.

I didn’t have my own “I am your father” moment. But at 18, I met my dad and wasn’t nearly as assertive as Luke. I’m not saying I should’ve attacked my father with a sword (though at various times in ensuing years…). I’m just saying I understand my dad a little better as I get older.

I used to write a newspaper column in which I told jolly tales of my children that amused people. I got a lot of reader feedback praising my obvious fathering skills (that I was telling them I had). Meanwhile, I was definitely not winning any father of the year awards at home. My paternal instincts became so out of whack, I stopped recognizing myself.

That changed dramatically the past couple years. That’s what happens when a guy stops trying to vaporize himself (trying to keep with the space theme, here). I’m trying to make up for lots of… everything.

So as we go into Father’s Day 2022, I see it more like a day for me and my kids. We’re all alive. We still love each other. We still get along pretty well.

And reflecting on my current fathering condition makes me realize I’ve finally learned one of the most valuable lessons a father should know: When to shut the hell up.

That isn’t the same thing as being absent from a situation. Not even close. They want you there. But they want you to shut up.

Most people talk too much. I’ve struggled with forest fire mouth since I was a child. But fathers (men) don’t need to control everything. Probably nothing, actually. Everyone doesn’t need our wisdom, which is generally us trying to sound like (name your favorite TV dad). As our President might say… “It’s a con job, man.”

My kids are at ages where they barely care what I say, anyway. That doesn’t mean I won’t speak when asked.

There was a situation I dealt with the other night demonstrating the relative effectiveness of applying my new STFU philosophy. My daughter was, for lack of a better term, exploding. In such times, she demonstrates an amazing ability to stack insults and expletives like the ancient Egyptians built pyramids.

In this instance, I happened to be trapped inside the same vehicle. It was after 9 p.m. on a weeknight, which meant I was barely conscious. Her anger at another human (thankfully) couldn’t be absorbed by just one person, so she called a friend and yelled at both of us.

There was a point when me and my delicate sensibilities almost pulled over and told her to STOP. Or at least go find a squirrel to chase while walking home. A decade ago (three years ago) it may have happened. And she would feel like she did something wrong (she didn’t), and the next week would be miserable for both of us.

We all have enough about which to feel bad. Yelling at kids for having normal emotions is minor child abuse. And I won’t do it anymore.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I want to hear that much of it. I originally intended to make a quick stop on the way home but, feeling like my ears were on fire, I rushed straight home, let her out without a word, and did my errand.

The ensuing 15 minutes delivered me from the danger zone. I went home; she’d calmed, but she wanted to tell me some more. I merely told her, “I heard,” went into my room and hid fearfully, believing I shouldn’t have even said that much.

She knocked on my door an hour later. As I expected, the storm passed. We had a lovely conversation. Everyone went to bed, and it’s been a peaceful few days. At times like these, it’s helpful to remember how screwed up we were at that age. Emotions appear and disappear fast. When I was 20, I remember walking around looking for arguments almost 24/7 (probably in my sleep, too). My dog hated me.

If we can’t have empathy for our kids, we don’t deserve them. I’m just glad mine are still around.

Have a great day, dads. And don’t forget to STFU.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.