After a week away on a business trip, I came home late at night and expected to find my kids tucked into bed. Instead, I nearly tripped over them — Tommy and Alex were asleep on the cold hallway floor, bundled in blankets, dirty-faced and exhausted. Shocked and panicked, I rushed through the house.
It looked like a tornado had hit — trash everywhere, and still no sign of my husband, Mark. Then I heard noises from the boys’ room. When I opened the door, my jaw dropped. Mark had turned their bedroom into a gamer man cave —
LED lights, a huge TV, piles of snacks, and Mark himself sitting there with headphones on, deep into a video game.My sons had literally been evicted from their room so he could have more “me-time.” When I confronted him, he brushed it off.
“They thought it was fun! Like camping!” Camping? On the hallway floor? That’s when I snapped — but not with yelling. I decided to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
The next morning, I served him breakfast on a plastic kiddie plate, complete with a Mickey Mouse pancake and a sippy cup. Then I unveiled his new chore chart and “screen time limits.”
For a full week, I treated him like the overgrown child he was acting like. Bedtime stories, unplugged Wi-Fi, dinosaur-shaped sandwiches — the works. When he threw a tantrum, I sent him to the timeout corner. The final blow? I called his mom.
When she arrived and learned what happened, she tore into him like only a disappointed mother can. Mark turned redder than a stop sign.
Eventually, he apologized — genuinely. “I was selfish,” he admitted. “It won’t happen again.” I forgave him, but I made one thing clear: our kids need a father, not a roommate with a game controller. And if he ever forgets that again… well, the chore chart is still on the fridge.
