After a week-long work trip, I came home late at night, expecting hugs from my boys—but instead, I found them sleeping on the cold hallway floor, dirty and exhausted. Heart racing, I searched the house and discovered it in chaos: pizza boxes, melted ice cream, and no sign of my husband, Mark. Then I heard strange noises coming from the boys’ room.
I opened the door and nearly lost it. Mark had turned our sons’ bedroom into a gamer’s den—complete with a huge screen, LED lights, and a mini-fridge. He was lounging with headphones on, totally immersed in his video game while our children slept on the floor outside. When confronted, he casually said they thought it was an “adventure.”
That night, I decided if he wanted to act like a child, I’d treat him like one. I unplugged his game, fed him pancakes on cartoon plates, and introduced a chore chart with gold stars and screen time limits. I even gave him a sippy cup and read him bedtime stories. For a week, he endured my “parenting” experiment—complete with timeouts and dinosaur-shaped sandwiches.
The final blow? I called his mother. She stormed in, furious and ready to set him straight. Only then did Mark realize how far he’d fallen. He apologized, ashamed, and promised to do better. I believed him—but just in case, the timeout corner is still ready and waiting.