When I left for a week-long trip, I trusted my husband, Mark, to handle the kids. But when I returned, I was horrified to find our sons sleeping on the cold hallway floor.
Panicked, I searched the house. Mark was nowhere to be found—until I peeked into the boys’ room. There he was, completely immersed in a video game, surrounded by energy drink cans and snacks. The room looked like a full-blown gaming den, complete with LED lights, a giant TV, and even a mini-fridge.
Furious, I confronted him. He casually said the boys were having an “adventure” sleeping outside their room and insisted everything was fine. That’s when I lost it. I demanded he put them in bed and vowed things were going to change.
The next morning, I launched “Operation Toddler Mode.” I treated Mark exactly how he’d been acting—like a child. Breakfast was served on a plastic plate, coffee in a sippy cup, and I created a chore chart with gold stars.
I cut his sandwiches into fun shapes, shut off the Wi-Fi at 9 p.m., and even tucked him in with “Goodnight Moon.” At first, he grumbled, but the tipping point came after a tantrum earned him a timeout. Fed up, he finally apologized.
But I had one last move: I called his mom. She arrived, furious, ready to whip him into shape. Humiliated, Mark finally admitted he’d messed up and promised to do better.
I smiled, kissed his cheek, and sent him to help with the dishes. Hopefully, the lesson stuck—but just in case, the timeout corner was still on standby.
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