Comfortable bedtime stuffed animals
I left my husband with the kids while I went on a week-long trip, believing it wouldn’t be a problem. But when I went home, I discovered my boys sleeping on the cold, muddy hallway floor.
My heart sank. Something wasn’t right. Was there a fire? A flood? No, my husband would have informed me.
I turned off the light and carefully walked over the lads, moving deeper into the home.
I opened our bedroom door, and it was vacant. My hubby left at midnight? That is bizarre.
Then I went to check out the boys’ room, ready myself for the worst.
I approached and heard muffled sounds. I quietly cracked the door open, without turning on the light, to see what was going on. I GASPED out loud when I spotted Mark in a dim light, headphones on, controller in hand, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers. But that wasn’t the weirdest thing.
The place had been turned into a gamer’s paradise. One wall was dominated by a large TV, there were LED lights everywhere, and that monstrosity in the corner was most likely a mini-fridge.
I was in shoc:k, and Mark hadn’t even spotted me because he was so absorbed in his game.
I took the headphones from his head. “Mark! “What the hell is going on?”
He looked at me, “Oh, hello sweetheart. “You arrived home early.”
“Early? It’s midnight! “Why do our children sleep on the floor?”
He reached for the controller. “Oh, everything’s fine. The boys were content sleeping outside. They considered it an adventure.”
I snatched the controller away. “An adventure?” They are not camping, Mark! “They’re sleeping on our dirty hallway floor!”
“Come on, don’t be such a buzzkill,” he pleaded, seeking to reclaim the controller. “Everything is under control.” “I’ve been feeding them and such.”
“Feeding them?” Are you referring to the pizza boxes and ice cream in the living room? I could feel my blood pressure increasing with each word. “And how about baths? Or, I don’t know, their actual beds?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “They are fine, Sarah. Lighten up a little.”
That’s when I went crazy.
“Lighten up?” LIGHTEN UP? Our kids are sleeping on the floor like animals while you play video games in their room! “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he huffed. “I’m simply trying to enjoy some me-time. “Is that so terrible?”
I tried not to scream. “Do you know what? We aren’t doing this right now. Go and put the boys in their beds. Now.”
“But I’m in the middle of—”
“NOW, Mark!”
He muttered, but got up and shuffled passed me.
I grabbed up Alex, my heart tearing at how filthy his face was. As I tucked him into bed, I reached a conclusion. If Mark wanted to act like a child, then that’s exactly how I’d treat him.
The following morning, I put my plan into action.
During Mark’s shower time, I snuck into the man cave he’d created and unplugged everything. Then I got to work.
When he arrived downstairs, I was waiting for him with a big smile. Good morning, sweetheart! “I made you breakfast!”
He stared at me curiously. “Uh, thanks?”
I presented him with a plate of Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes with a fruit smiley face on them. His coffee was in a sippy cup.
“What’s this?” he inquired, prodding around the pancake.
“This is your breakfast, silly! Now, eat up; we have a busy day ahead of us!”
After breakfast, I displayed my masterpiece: a massive, colorful chore chart affixed to the refrigerator. “Look what I made for you!”
Mark’s eyes expanded. “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 do not forget! We have a new house rule. All screens must be turned off by 9 p.m. precisely. This includes your phone, man!”
Mark’s expression shifted from perplexed to enraged. “Are you kidding me?” I’m an adult, and I don’t need—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” I waggled 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 turned off the Wi-Fi and unplugged his game console.
I even put him to bed with a glass of milk and read him “Goodnight Moon” in my best soothing voice.
His meals were served on plastic plates with little dividers. I cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes and gave him animal crackers for snacks. When he complained, I’d say things like, “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.”
The chore chart was a particular point of contention. Every time he completed a task, I’d make 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 would respond, “Of course not, dear. “So, who wants to help make cookies?”
The breaking point occurred approximately a week into my small experiment. Mark had just been sent to the timeout corner for complaining about his two-hour screen time limit. He sat there seething as I calmly set the kitchen timer.
“This is ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you certain about that? Because adult men do not force their children to sleep on the floor so they can play video games all night.
He deflated a little. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’m sorry!”
I studied him for a moment. He did look genuinely remorseful, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook when I had one last blow to deliver.
“Oh, I accept your apology,” I said sweetly. “But I’ve already called your mom…”
The color drained from his face. “You didn’t.”
There came a knock at the door, just as expected. I opened it to reveal Mark’s mother, who appeared every bit the disappointed parent.
“Mark!” she said, marching into the home. “Did you really make my sweeties sleep on the floor so you could play your little games?”
Mark seemed to want the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “Mommy, it’s not…” “I didn’t…”
She looked at me, her expression softening. “Sarah, sweetheart, I am so sorry you had to cope with this. “I thought I’d raised him better than that.”
I patted her arm. “It is not your fault, Linda.” “Some boys just take longer to mature than others.”
Mark’s face was beet-red. “Mom. Please. “I am 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 bit. “I understand, honey. But when I’m away, I need to know you’re in control. The boys need a father, not just another playmate.”
He nodded, humiliated. “You’re correct. “I promise to do better.”
I grinned and gave him a short kiss. “I’m sure you will. Now, why don’t you go assist your mother with the dishes? If you do a nice job, perhaps we can have ice cream for dessert.”
Mark went off to the kitchen, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. I hoped to have learned my lesson. If not, I still had the timeout corner ready.