Why does my son seem to unknowingly frustrate me on a regular basis?

Boys have a way of frustrating and irritating the very souls of us dads. They leave our best tools out in the rain or they scramble them on the workbench. They lose our binoculars and they drop our cameras.

Many of them are sassy, irresponsible and hard to handle. Or they do things that make absolutely no sense to the rational mind, such as little Jeffrey hiding under the bed while his family runs through the neighborhood shouting his name.

Of course, we fathers shouldn’t complain. We were once boys who drove our own dads crazy too, so we should cut our sons some slack.

When I was 17 years old, the state of Texas granted me a license to drive. It was a bad decision.

My dad had recently bought a brand-new Ford, and he let me take it out for a spin during lunchtime one day. That was another big mistake. Hundreds of my fellow students were milling around my school as I drove by, which gave me a great opportunity to show off.

I also wanted to test a theory that had intrigued me. In our little town, there were huge dips on both sides of certain intersections to handle the flash floods that occasionally swept down our streets.

I reasoned that if I hit the bumps at high speed, my car would sail over them. I was a big fan of Joey Chitwood, who was the Evel Knievel of that day, and I had seen him catapult his car over obstacles at the state fair. If Joey could do it why not me?

Obviously, there was much that I didn’t understand about the physics of 3,000 pounds of steel hurtling down the road. I approached the intersection helter-skelter and careened into the first dip. There was a violent reaction. Kaboom! went the bottom of the car. Then I blasted into the second canyon. Kabang!

My head hit the headliner and the car convulsed up and down like a gigantic yo-yo. My entire life passed in front of my eyes. But my Texas friends were awestruck. They said, “Wow! Look at tha-yet. He got ar under his tars.”

A few weeks later, my good ol’ dad came to me and said, “Uh, Bo,” (that’s what he called me) “I just took the car to the mechanic, and he said all four shocks have blown out. It’s the craziest thing. Shocks usually wear out little by little, but the car is new and they’re already shredded. Do you have any idea how this could have happened?”

The only thing that saved me was a momentary lapse of memory. At that second, I honestly didn’t recall that I had hit the bumps, so I said no. He accepted my denial and I escaped with my life.

A few weeks later, I was driving near our home when the steering column broke, sending the Ford into the curb. Fortunately, no one was killed.

It was years later before I realized that I had blown the shocks and probably cracked the steering post during “the great physics experiment.” Who knows what other damage I did to Dad’s new car on that day.

By the time I admitted to myself that I was the guilty party, the statute of limitations had expired on my crime. My dad had forgotten about the episode and he never mentioned it again. Nor did I. My father went to his grave unaware of the stupid thing I had done.

So Dad, if you’re watching from up there, just know that I’m sorry and I won’t ever do it again. I’ll save my allowance for six years to pay for the damage. It was the only time I ever got “ar under my tars.”

Despite all the challenges associated with raising a rambunctious child, one of the greatest privileges in living is to have one of them hug your neck and say, “I love you, Dad.”

Dobson is president of the nonprofit organization Focus on the Family, P.O. Box 444, Colorado Springs, Colo. 80903; or www.family.org.