After a weeklong business trip, I couldn’t wait to get home to my husband Mark and our boys, Tommy and Alex. But when I opened the front door at midnight, I was stunned.The boys were asleep on the hallway floor, curled up under blankets. Their faces were dirty, their hair messy. My heart sank—why weren’t they in their room?
I checked the house. The living room was messy with pizza boxes and ice cream wrappers, but no sign of Mark. Then I heard noises from the boys’ room. When I peeked inside, I nearly gasped.Mark had turned their bedroom into a gaming den. A huge TV, glowing lights, snacks everywhere—and there he was, playing video games with headphones on.
“Mark,” I asked, “why are the kids on the floor?”“They thought it was fun,” he shrugged. “It’s like camping.”I wasn’t amused. The boys deserved their beds, not the hallway. I told him to tuck them in, and as I carried Alex, I couldn’t help but notice how childlike Mark seemed compared to his son.The next morning, I had an idea. If Mark wanted to act like one of the kids, then I’d treat him like one.
I made him Mickey-shaped pancakes, gave him coffee in a sippy cup, and stuck a chore chart on the fridge. I even enforced a “screen-time limit” and read him a bedtime story. At first, he rolled his eyes, but after a week, he finally admitted: “I’m sorry. I was selfish and irresponsible. It won’t happen again.”I told him gently, “The boys need a father, not another playmate.”He nodded, and for once, I could tell he understood.That night, as we tucked the kids into their actual beds, I hoped the lesson had sunk in. And if not… well, the timeout corner is always ready.