I’d been away on a business trip for a week, and let me tell you, I was itching to get home. My boys, Tommy and Alex, were probably bouncing off the walls waiting for me.
I mean, a week is practically forever when you’re six and eight. And Mark? Well, I figured he’d be glad to hand the reins back over to me. He’s a great dad, don’t get me wrong, but he’s always been more of the fun parent than the responsible one.
As I pulled into our driveway at midnight, I couldn’t help but grin. The house was dark and quiet, just as it should be at this ungodly hour.
I grabbed my suitcase and tiptoed to the front door, keys jingling softly in my hand.
The lock clicked open, and I stepped inside, ready to collapse into bed. But something was… off.
My foot hit something soft, and I froze. Heart pounding, I fumbled for the light switch. When the hall lit up, I almost screamed.
Tommy and Alex were sprawled out on the floor, tangled in blankets like a pair of puppies. They were fast asleep, but their faces were smudged with dirt, and their hair stuck out in wild tufts.
“What the hell?” I whispered. Had there been a fire? A gas leak? Why weren’t they in their beds?
I crept past them, afraid to wake them until I knew what was going on. The living room was a disaster zone—pizza boxes, soda cans, and what looked suspiciously like melted ice cream smeared across the coffee table. But no sign of Mark.
My heart was doing the cha-cha in my chest as I checked our bedroom. Empty. The bed hadn’t been touched. But his car was in the driveway.
That’s when I heard it. A faint, muffled sound coming from the boys’ room. My imagination went straight to the worst-case scenario—had some psycho broken in?
I pushed the door open inch by inch and froze.
There was Mark, headphones on, controller in hand, surrounded by a fortress of energy drink cans. And the boys’ room? It had been transformed into a neon gamer paradise. A massive TV took up the wall, LED lights pulsed like a rave, and in the corner sat a fully stocked mini-fridge.
He hadn’t even noticed me.
I stomped over and yanked his headphones off. “Mark! What the hell is going on?”
He blinked, dazed. “Oh, hey, babe. You’re home early.”
“Early? It’s midnight! Why are our kids asleep on the hallway floor?”
He shrugged. “They thought it was fun. Like camping.”
“Camping? On the hardwood floor?” I snapped. “What about baths? What about their beds?”
“They’re fine, Sarah. Lighten up a little.”
That’s when I lost it.
“Lighten up? Our children are sleeping like strays while you turn their bedroom into an arcade? And you call this parenting?”
Mark huffed. “I just needed a little me-time. Is that so terrible?”
I took a deep breath, steadying my voice. “Put the boys in bed. Now.”
He grumbled but obeyed. Watching him carry Tommy, I couldn’t shake the thought: one was a child, and the other just acted like one.
That night, as I tucked Alex in, I made a decision. If Mark wanted to act like a kid, then I’d treat him like one.
The Parenting Flip
The next morning, I unveiled my masterpiece: a giant, colorful chore chart plastered to the fridge.
Mark squinted at it. “What the hell is that?”
“Language!” I snapped. “It’s your chore chart. See? You can earn gold stars for making your bed, putting away your laundry, and—oh look—‘cleaning your toys.’”
His jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
But I wasn’t.
For the next week, I enforced bedtime at 9 p.m. sharp. I unplugged his gaming setup, cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes, and served dinner on divided plastic plates. I even tucked him in with milk and read Goodnight Moon in my sweetest voice.
When he complained, I’d smile. “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.”
Every completed chore earned him a gold star. Every tantrum? Timeout corner.
By day five, the man was on the verge of collapse.
“This is ridiculous!” he exploded one night. “I’m a grown man!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Funny. Grown men don’t leave their kids on the floor so they can grind for loot boxes.”
That shut him up.
But I wasn’t done.
The Final Lesson
One week later, I delivered the knockout punch.
“I’ve already called your mom,” I said sweetly.
His face drained of color. “You didn’t.”
Right on cue, there was a knock. His mother stormed in, hands on hips. “Mark! Did you really make my grandbabies sleep on the floor so you could play your little games?”
Mark stammered, but she bulldozed right over him. “I thought I raised you better than this. Sarah, I’ll help you set him straight.”
As she marched to the kitchen to inspect the state of the dishes, Mark looked utterly defeated.
“Sarah,” he muttered, “I really am sorry. I was selfish. It won’t happen again.”
I softened, but only slightly. “I know you’ll do better. The boys need a father, not another playmate.”
He nodded, ashamed. “You’re right.”
“Good,” I said with a small smile. “Now go help your mother with the dishes. If you do a good job, maybe we’ll have ice cream later.”
As he trudged away, I couldn’t help but feel a little smug. Lesson learned. And if not—well, that timeout corner wasn’t going anywhere.
