After a week away on a business trip, I returned home, eager to reunite with my kids, only to be met with an unsettling sight. My heart dropped as I saw Tommy and Alex sleeping on the cold hallway floor. Panic surged through me. Where was Mark? Why were the boys not in their beds? My mind raced with alarming possibilities—had there been a fire? A gas leak?
I crept past my sleeping children, careful not to wake them, and made my way into the living room, which was a disaster zone. Pizza boxes littered the floor, soda cans were scattered about, and what looked suspiciously like melted ice cream congealed on the coffee table. Mark’s car was parked in the driveway, yet he was nowhere to be found. My heart pounded as I approached our bedroom, only to find it empty. The bed was still made, untouched since I’d left.
That’s when I heard it—a faint, muffled sound coming from the boys’ room. My imagination spiraled. Was Mark hurt? Had someone broken in? I pushed the door open slowly, bracing myself for the worst.
“What. The. Actual—” I bit my tongue, remembering the kids were just down the hall.
There was Mark, headphones on, controller in hand, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. Empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers surrounded him, and the boys’ room had transformed into a gamer’s paradise. A massive TV took up one wall, LED lights flickered everywhere, and in the corner, a mini-fridge sat like a throne of indulgence. My jaw dropped as the rage built inside me, threatening to explode.
I stomped over and yanked the headphones off his head. “Mark! What the hell is going on?”
He blinked at me, looking dazed. “Oh, hey babe. You’re home early.”
“Early? It’s midnight! Why are our children sleeping on the floor?”
He shrugged, reaching for his controller again. “Oh, it’s fine. The boys thought it was an adventure to sleep outside.”
“An adventure? They’re not camping, Mark! They’re sleeping on our dirty hallway floor!”
“Come on, don’t be such a buzzkill,” he replied, trying to grab the controller back. “Everything’s under control. I’ve been feeding them and stuff.”
“Feeding them? You mean the pizza boxes and ice cream in the living room?” My blood pressure soared with every syllable. “What about baths? Or, I don’t know, their actual beds?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “They’re fine, Sarah. Lighten up a bit.”
That’s when I lost it. “Lighten up? LIGHTEN UP? Our children are sleeping on the floor like animals while you play video games in their room! What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he huffed. “I’m just trying to have a little me-time. Is that so terrible?”
I took a deep breath, attempting to regain my composure. “You know what? We’re not doing this right now. Go put the boys in their beds. Now.”
“But I’m in the middle of—”
“NOW, Mark!”
He grumbled but got up, shuffling past me. I watched him pick up Tommy, who stirred slightly but didn’t wake. As he carried him to bed, I couldn’t help but think how alike they looked: one actual child and the man acting like one.
Scooping up Alex, my heart broke a little at how dirty his face was. As I tucked him into bed, I made a decision. If Mark wanted to act like a child, then that was how I’d treat him.
The next morning, I set my plan into action. While Mark was in the shower, I snuck into the man cave he had created and unplugged everything. Then I got to work.
When he came downstairs, hair still wet, I greeted him with a big smile. “Good morning, sweetie! I made you breakfast!”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Uh, thanks?”
I set a plate in front of him. In the center was a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake adorned with a smiley face made of fruit, and his coffee was served in a sippy cup.
“What’s this?” he asked, poking at the pancake.
“It’s your breakfast, silly! Now eat up; we have a big day ahead of us!”
After breakfast, I unveiled my masterpiece: a giant, colorful chore chart plastered on the fridge.
“Look what I made for you!”
Mark’s eyes widened. “What the hell is that?”
“Language!” I scolded. “It’s your very own chore chart! See? You can earn gold stars for cleaning your room, doing the dishes, and putting away your toys!”
“My toys? Sarah, what are you—”
I cut him off. “Oh, and don’t forget! We have a new house rule: all screens off by 9 p.m. sharp. That includes your phone, mister!”
His face shifted from confusion to anger. “Are you kidding me? I’m a grown man; I don’t need—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” I wagged my finger. “No arguing, or you’ll have to go to the timeout corner!”
For the next week, I stuck to my guns. Every night at 9, I’d shut off the Wi-Fi and unplug his gaming console. I even tucked him into bed with a glass of milk and read him “Goodnight Moon” in my most soothing voice. His meals were served on plastic plates with little dividers, and I cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes, adding animal crackers for snacks. Whenever he complained, I’d say things like, “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.”
The chore chart became a particular point of contention. Every time he completed a task, I made a big show of giving him a gold star. “Look at you, putting your laundry away all by yourself! Mommy’s so proud!”
He’d grit his teeth and mutter, “I’m not a child, Sarah.”
To which I’d respond, “Of course not, sweetie. Now, who wants to help make cookies?”
The breaking point came about a week into my little experiment. Mark had just been sent to the timeout corner for throwing a fit about his two-hour screen time limit. He sat there, fuming, while I calmly set the kitchen timer.
“This is ridiculous!” he exploded. “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure about that? Because grown men don’t make their children sleep on the floor so they can play video games all night.”
He deflated slightly. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’m sorry!”
I studied him, seeing genuine remorse in his eyes, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook yet. “Oh, I accept your apology,” I said sweetly. “But I’ve already called your mom…”
The color drained from his face. “You didn’t.”
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to reveal Mark’s mother, looking every bit the disappointed parent.
“Mark!” she bellowed, marching into the house. “Did you really make my sweeties sleep on the floor so you could play your little games?”
Mark looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “Mom, it’s not… I mean, I didn’t…”
She turned to me, her face softening. “Sarah, dear, I’m so sorry you had to deal with this. I thought I raised him better than that.”
I patted her arm. “It’s not your fault, Linda. Some boys just take longer to grow up than others.”
Mark’s face was beet red. “Mom, please. I’m 35 years old!”
Linda ignored him, turning back to me. “Well, not to worry. I’ve cleared my schedule for the next week. I’ll whip this boy back into shape in no time!”
As Linda bustled off to the kitchen, muttering about the state of the dishes, I caught Mark’s eye. He looked utterly defeated.
“Sarah,” he said quietly, “I really am sorry. I was selfish and irresponsible. It won’t happen again.”
I softened a little. “I know, honey. But when I’m away, I need to know you’ve got things under control. The boys need a father, not another playmate.”
He nodded, looking ashamed. “You’re right. I’ll do better, I promise.”
I smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “I know you will. Now, why don’t you go help your mother with the dishes? If you do a good job, maybe we can have ice cream for dessert.”
As Mark trudged off to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Lesson learned, I hoped. And if not… well, I still had that timeout corner ready and waiting.