“Mom, seriously—what even is this song?” my son groans from the backseat, though a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. I reach for the volume knob and turn it up anyway, letting the unmistakable beat of Rob Base’s “It Takes Two” fill the car. I can’t help myself. I know every word, and I’m not afraid to belt them out—off-key, over the thumping bass, as my kids exchange amused, exasperated glances.

I see the curiosity in their eyes—trying to picture me as a teenager, riding around with friends, carefree and full of possibility. The kind of mom who thought these songs were cool, knew all the lyrics, and felt like the world was hers for the taking. There’s something about sharing these songs with them, songs from a life they’ve never seen, that feels like time travel.

Suddenly, it’s 1988, and I’m a junior in high school, piled into Maria’s red Mustang with the basketball team, the top down and the Florida air thick and warm. The Florida air is warm and thick, washing over us as we cruise down US 19, not caring where we’re headed. It’s a Friday night, and we’re in motion—windows open, speakers blasting, the kind of music that makes you feel invincible. Rob Base is rapping about getting busy, and we shout along, our laughter mixing with the music as the night stretches out ahead of us. We have nowhere to be, and that’s the best part.

We drive to Countryside Mall and check out the movie theater, hoping to run into a group of boys we know, or maybe we’ll end up at Chili’s for mozzarella sticks and chicken wings. We don’t need to plan it out—we go wherever the night takes us. And when we’re not ready to go home, we head to the bowling alley, where the neon lights glow, and the lanes glimmer under the black lights. It doesn’t matter that I’m terrible at bowling; at least half of my shots end up in the gutter. It’s about being together, the ritual of gathering, of making the night ours. I check in with my parents from pay phones along the way – no cell phones yet – and as long as I roll in reasonably close to my 10:30 curfew, the world of Palm Harbor is ours.

I think of this as a particularly magical time of my young life. Old enough to dream of exploring the world, young enough that big decisions like college and career are a little way off. At the time, I was a big fan of the Police and early Tom Petty, but with Maria and our friends, rap music was the main event.

And the music is always there, loud enough to drown out everything else—homework, curfews, the uncertainty of what comes next. We sing along with Sir Mix-a-Lot, pretending we’re older and wiser than we are, feeling that rush of independence as the Mustang eats up the road. The night air blows through our hair, and I’m convinced there’s nowhere better to be than here, now, with these friends, this car, this music.

I blink, and I’m back. My sons grin at me in the rear-view mirror, bemused, as I stumble over a line and then pick it right back up, smiling because I still remember the words. They roll their eyes, but I can tell they’re trying to picture me as a teenager—riding around in a convertible, laughing and singing with abandon. I tell my sons about the car, the friends, and the freedom that will last forever. I tell them about the car, the friends, and the feeling of freedom. The silly songs, the greasy diner food, the way we’d look for boys and pretend we weren’t—how the night was always full of possibilities just beyond our grasp.

My older son listens, half-interested, half-amused, and I can see him thinking about his future—about the car rides he’ll have, the nights that will feel endless, the soundtrack he’ll make for himself. I watch him as he’s growing up, gaining his independence, and I can’t help but feel a swell of excitement. He’s so close to that age now—on the brink of something bigger, ready to step into his adventures. I see it when he excels at school, when he’s out on the soccer field, pushing himself a little further each time, the way he’s starting to become someone entirely his own.

I can’t wait to see where he goes, what music he’ll choose, who he’ll become. And maybe, one day, he’ll drive his own kids around, playing whatever ridiculous songs made him feel free, glancing back with a grin. I hope his taste in music is better than mine, but even if it isn’t, I hope he sings at the top of his lungs. Because that’s what these moments are for—letting the music fill you up, making the world feel big and full of promise, and knowing you’re on the edge of something amazing.