After a week away on business, I returned home to a shocking scene: my kids, Tommy and Alex, sleeping on the cold hallway floor. My heart raced as I searched for answers and found my husband, Mark, missing. The strange noises coming from the kids’ room only added to my confusion. When I finally discovered the cause, my anger boiled over.
Mark had transformed the kids’ room into a gaming paradise, complete with a massive TV, LED lights, and a mini-fridge. The room was a mess, and Mark was engrossed in video games, surrounded by empty cans and snack wrappers. My kids were on the floor, supposedly “happy” with their new “adventure.”
“Mark, what is going on?” I demanded, tearing his headphones off. He shrugged dismissively, claiming the boys enjoyed their “adventure” and that he was just having some “me-time.” I was furious. “Our kids are sleeping on the floor while you’re living in their room!”
Mark rolled his eyes. “They’re fine. Lighten up.”
Two boys sleeping in a hallway | Source: Midjourney
Unable to contain my rage, I ordered him to put the boys to bed. The next morning, I decided to take matters into my own hands. While Mark was in the shower, I unplugged all his gaming equipment and set up a chore chart on the fridge. I served him breakfast with a Mickey Mouse pancake and coffee in a sippy cup.
Mark was bewildered. “What’s this?”
“It’s your new chore chart!” I replied cheerfully. “And screens off by 9 p.m.!”
Mark’s frustration grew. “I’m an adult, not a child!”
“Oh, you’re right,” I said. “But if you act like a child, you’ll be treated like one.”
For the next week, I enforced strict “rules” on Mark: screen time limits, chores, and even bedtime stories. His complaints fell on deaf ears as I continued to treat him like a misbehaving child.
The breaking point came when Mark, sent to the timeout corner, exploded in frustration. I used the moment to reveal that I had called his mother. Moments later, Mark’s mom, Linda, arrived, clearly disappointed.
“Did you really make my grandchildren sleep on the floor?” she scolded Mark.
Mark looked mortified. Linda turned to me. “Sarah, I’m sorry. I thought I raised him better.”
“It’s not your fault, Linda. Some boys just take longer to grow up,” I said.
Linda took charge, ready to set Mark straight. As she busied herself, Mark apologized sincerely. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll do better.”
I smiled, relieved. “I know you will. Now, go help your mother with the dishes. If you do well, maybe we can have ice cream for dessert.”
As Mark trudged off to help, I felt a sense of triumph. Lesson learned, I hoped. And if not, well, the timeout corner was still ready and waiting.
