When I returned home after a week-long business trip, I was not prepared for the shocking scene that awaited me. My heart nearly stopped when I stepped through the front door and found my two young sons, Tommy and Alex, fast asleep on the cold hallway floor, tangled in blankets like stray puppies.
They looked disheveled and dirty, their hair matted and faces smudged, and my first thought was that something terrible had happened. Had there been an emergency? A gas leak? A fire? My confusion only deepened when I realized my husband, Mark, was nowhere to be found. The house was in complete disarray—pizza boxes, soda cans, and melted ice cream littered the living room. Still no sign of Mark. I tiptoed to our bedroom, which looked untouched, and just as I was about to panic, I heard faint noises coming from the boys’ room. What I found behind that door sent me into full-blown fury. The room had been completely transformed into a gaming den. A massive TV took up the wall, LED lights flashed obnoxiously, and there was even a mini-fridge stuffed into the corner.
There sat Mark, wearing headphones, glued to his game controller, surrounded by a graveyard of empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers. My jaw dropped. I snatched the headphones off his head and demanded an explanation. His response? “Oh hey, babe. You’re home early.” I was seething. Midnight is not early, and more importantly, why were our children sleeping on the floor while he enjoyed his man cave? Mark shrugged, claiming the boys thought it was fun and that everything was fine. But fine isn’t letting your kids sleep on the floor while you play video games in their bedroom. I told him to put the boys back in bed immediately. He protested, of course, but finally did as I asked. Watching him carry Tommy to bed, I realized how childish he was acting—more like a big kid than a father. That’s when I decided to teach him a lesson.
The next morning, while he was in the shower, I unplugged everything in his makeshift gamer paradise and prepared a surprise. When he came downstairs, I greeted him with a cheerful smile and served him a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake on a plastic plate, with coffee in a sippy cup. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. But I wasn’t done. I unveiled a giant chore chart on the fridge, complete with gold star rewards for cleaning, doing dishes, and putting away “toys.” Mark was horrified. I told him all screens were off by 9 p.m. sharp, no exceptions. Every night, I stuck to my plan.
I’d unplug the Wi-Fi, shut down the console, tuck him into bed with a glass of milk, and read “Goodnight Moon.” His sandwiches were cut into dinosaur shapes, and he got animal crackers for snacks. Whenever he complained, I’d calmly say, “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.” The chore chart was a particular favorite of mine. For every completed task, I made a big show of giving him a gold star, complete with over-the-top praise. Mark grew more frustrated by the day, but I kept my cool. The final straw came when I sent him to the timeout corner for throwing a tantrum about his screen time limit. Furious, he shouted that he was a grown man, and I raised an eyebrow and calmly reminded him that grown men don’t let their children sleep on the floor for the sake of video games. That finally broke him. He apologized, admitted he was wrong, and promised to be better. But I wasn’t quite finished. I told him I’d already called his mom. The horror on his face was priceless. Right on cue, she showed up at the door, furious. She scolded him like he was still a teenager and vowed to stay the week to whip him back into shape. As she marched into the kitchen, Mark looked utterly defeated. He turned to me and sincerely apologized again, promising to be more responsible. I nodded, kissed him on the cheek, and told him to help his mom with the dishes. If he did a good job, maybe there’d be ice cream for dessert. Lesson learned—or so I hoped. If not, the timeout corner was always ready.
