We’ve crossed a new threshold in life, which is to say, we’ve recently bought a van. Our two girls were absolutely giddy at the prospect of no longer having to sit in the same row.
But how quickly the giddiness fades.
“I can’t hear the music!” the younger one wails. “Turn it up!”
“It’s already so loud,” I protest from the driver’s seat. My wife concurs. “It’s going to hurt your ears.”
My daughter is displeased with that response, crosses her arms, contorts her face into a look of absolute misery, and tucks herself into the side of the seat. I, feeling quite justified in my parental wisdom, shrug.
But as the days pass and driving duties shift—what with all the passengers we can now ferry about—I find myself in the back seat. And, importantly, I find myself straining to hear the music.
“You were right,” I say to my daughter. “It is hard to hear back here.”
She looks at me with the smugness I deserve. And the next time I am in the driver’s seat, I, dutiful father, press all the buttons I can find on the front panel until the sound is balanced appropriately throughout the car
