“Driver’s Ed: Volume Too Loud”

There are moments in fatherhood that test your patience. Then there are moments that test your eardrums. Teaching my son to drive manages to do both  at the same time.

Now, before I go any further, let’s set the ground rules: in our car, whoever drives controls the music. It’s the rule of the road, a sacred code passed down through generations of men who once fought over cassette tapes and radio presets. But somewhere along the way, that rule backfired specifically, in the form of my teenager’s playlist.

I knew I was in trouble the moment he plugged in his phone. The bass dropped before we even backed out of the driveway. It wasn’t so much music as it was… an aggressive combination of 808s and existential confusion. The kind of sound that makes your mirrors vibrate and your soul reconsider its life choices.

“Dad, you gotta feel it,” he said, turning the volume up another few decibels past human comfort levels.

Oh, I felt it. In my spine. In my fillings. In the tiny part of my brain that once loved jazz and old-school R&B.

Now, I’m a patient man. I’ve handled tantrums, diaper blowouts, and the phrase “Can you cash app me real quick?” without losing my cool. But nothing  and I mean nothing could have prepared me for 30 straight minutes of whatever genre this was.

I tried to describe it later to my wife. “It’s like… someone took a perfectly good song, stripped out all the lyrics, replaced them with autotune therapy sessions, and then looped it for sport.”

Still, I bit my tongue. Because this is his time. He’s learning. And apparently, so am I  learning humility, endurance, and the subtle art of pretending to like music that sounds like my car is glitching.

Between the music and his creative braking style, my nerves were in full sprint mode. Every stop sign became a faith test. Every turn was an adventure. Every beat drop was a cry for divine intervention.

And yet somewhere between the noise and near-misses  I realized something. This was more than just driver’s ed. This was a front-row seat to my son growing up. The same kid who once sang Disney songs in the back seat was now behind the wheel, navigating real roads and blasting his version of “life’s soundtrack.”

Sure, I wanted to grab the AUX cord and save us both. But there’s something kind of poetic about learning to let go  literally and metaphorically while your kid learns to drive.

Because that’s what this phase really is: me easing off the brakes, him taking control of the wheel (and apparently, the bass).

And every so often, when I catch him concentrating, adjusting his mirrors, signaling properly  I forget the noise. I forget my blood pressure. I forget that my ears are ringing from “beats I can’t pronounce.”

All I see is my son figuring it out in motion, in rhythm, in his own loud, confusing way.

Eventually, we pull back into the driveway. My heart rate returns to human levels. I take a deep breath, proud but partially deaf.

He looks at me and says, “You good, Dad?”

I nod, because words have left me.

Then, with the smug grin only teenagers can pull off, he adds:

“Next time, we’ll work on the highway.”

Lord, give me strength… and noise-canceling headphones