I came home late from a business trip, exhausted but excited to see my family. As I climbed the stairs, I tripped over something soft—my two sons, asleep in the hallway, wrapped in blankets like castaways. Confused and alarmed, I tiptoed toward their bedroom, only to find it transformed into a neon-lit gaming cave. My husband Mark sat there, headphones on, surrounded by snack wrappers and energy drink cans, completely oblivious to the fact that our children had been displaced.
I ripped the headphones off his head and demanded answers. He shrugged, claiming he needed “me-time” and that everything was “under control.” My blood boiled. Our kids were sleeping on the floor while he turned their room into a man-child sanctuary. That night, I tucked my boys into bed and made a decision. If Mark wanted to act like a child, I’d treat him like one—starting immediately.
The next morning, I served him Mickey Mouse pancakes and coffee in a sippy cup. I unveiled a chore chart with gold stars and enforced screen time limits. Every night, I shut off the Wi-Fi and read him bedtime stories. He whined, threw tantrums, and earned timeouts. I even cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes. It was petty, yes—but it was also poetic justice. He needed to understand the weight of responsibility he’d so carelessly abandoned.
The breaking point came when I called his mother. She stormed in, furious, and scolded him like a misbehaving teenager. Mark finally cracked, apologizing with genuine remorse. I accepted it, but the damage was done. He’d learned his lesson the hard way—and if he ever forgot, I still had that timeout corner waiting.
