I pick James up from school and we ease into our usual after-school drift. Backpack and trumpet thump into the back seat, he gets in the passenger seat with that end-of-day heaviness, and I point the car toward the pool. I try the standard openers.
“How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“No.”
So I start getting “creative,” as if a different angle might produce a productive conversation — the kind that lives in parenting books, TED Talks, and other realms of if only it were so simple.
“Did anyone say anything interesting in class today?”
“No.”
“What ideas caught your attention?”
“None.”
By round ten I can practically hear the gears in my head churning. He likely can, too. By round fifteen I’m the substituted-substitute host of a CBC interview show while James answers like Yves Klein with a paintbrush: monochromatic. Nothing is wrong; it’s just the pattern — me fishing, him not biting, both of us on autopilot down St. Mary’s.
Somewhere near the turn onto Abinojii Mikanah Highway, just as I’m about to attempt question nineteen, he cuts in.
“Can we listen to music?”
“Sure,” I say, a little wary of what he might put on. (Children, it turns out, are just as bemused by naughty language as I was when I was 12. And I only trust parental controls so far.)
He presses play and, shockingly, the opening synths of “Golden” pour through the sound system. The drop. And we’re in it. He knows every word. I kind of know the words. The car fills with that warm, glossy sound — the soundtrack of youth in 2025. Heck, for that moment, it’s my soundtrack, too. (And not just because I’m glad he hasn’t put on something with more beeps than words.)
Suddenly, his good choice has moved us from auto-pilot-in-a-Boeing-mode to barrel rolling in an F-14. Immediate car mosh pit. Other commuters might well as they drive beside us. Wonderful. I know we’re laughing — really laughing. And I’m singing now – I know way more of this song than I thought I did! And we’re living the same moment without either of us forcing anything.
WHY THIS TOOL MATTERS
There’s a reason these golden moments in the car matter. Most families don’t fall apart in dramatic arguments; they drift in the small, tired, everyday moments when everyone is doing their best but nobody has the energy to shift the pattern. After school, after work, between activities — these are the fault lines where connection thins out. You’re both in the same space, but not in the same moment. As I like to say, the relationship is in the room between you and the people you care about, not siloed in your head. Trying to think our way into asking the right question all too often just alienates us from the people we’re curious about.
Playful disruption works because it doesn’t argue with or interrogate the mood. It doesn’t push for openness or force conversation. It sneaks in sideways. A shared song. A small joke. A half-sung lyric. Something gently off-script that interrupts the rut without demanding anything from the other person.
A car is the perfect setting for this kind of shift. Especially with kids and teens who often very much do not want to feel hemmed in by adults. In a car, you’re contained but not trapped. You’re facing forward, too, which helps take the focus off of getting it right. No one has to make eye contact. The stakes are low. The acoustics are forgiving. And music — especially their music — cuts straight through whatever emotional static is clogging the air. It softens defensiveness. Levels the field. Makes room for a different energy to enter without anyone naming it.
The point of the Car Karaoke of Playful Disruption isn’t to be silly for the sake of silliness. It’s to remind the relationship it still has range. A tiny, unexpected nudge can reconnect two people (or a room) faster than twenty well-crafted questions. This tool isn’t about performing joy. It’s about cracking the surface just enough that warmth can slip back in.
HOW TO USE IT
The Car Karaoke of Playful Disruption begins in moments that don’t look like much. In our case, it started when James asked, “Can we listen to music?” That single question changed the direction of the moment far more effectively than any of my increasingly elaborate attempts at conversation. The principle is simple: when someone offers a doorway, use it.
Music works particularly well because it allows two people to share an experience without demanding anything more than presence. When James chose “Golden,” the tone in the car changed on its own. My role wasn’t to steer or encourage or “make it fun.” It was to follow his lead.
Practically speaking, this means allowing the music to set the emotional pace. You don’t need to match their enthusiasm or manufacture cheerfulness. If you join in, do it gently. Miss half the words. Let the moment unfold without trying to improve it. Children and teens often feel safest when connection is indirect — side-by-side, through sound, with no expectation attached.
Sometimes the shift stays small: the car feels easier, conversation pressure drops, and both bodies settle. Sometimes the moment expands and humour arrives naturally. Sometimes the song ends and the other person speaks again because the air is different now, less charged with effort. All of these outcomes are enough because we find ourselves in the room (or the car) rather than in our heads. Silos are for grain; not for thoughts.
The therapeutic heart of this tool lies in interrupting a familiar pattern without challenging it head-on. Instead of prying open a tired mind, we allow something simple and shared to loosen it. You create the conditions for connection, but you don’t push for a result. Playful disruption reminds us that relationships have multiple routes back to closeness.
THE PRACTICE
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